A Door into the Dark
by volley
Summary: There is danger for Travis on the planet Ajfwqa. A trap is about to close around him, and Malcolm and Trip fail to see it...
1. Chapter 1

Written for "Break Travis Month". This is a multi-chapter story. It takes place before the Expanse.

Grateful thanks to my wonderful beta readers, Gabi2305 and RoaringMice.

§ 1 §

Malcolm leaned back with his elbows on the pedestal of the deep-green stone effigy of 'August Sovereign Fhniet'we I" and let the view extending in front of his eyes transport him briefly into the realm of recollection. Looking at the sea always brought back memories – and not necessarily all bad ones.

As a child, before his aqua-phobia, he'd been attracted to the water; he still was, in a strange way – a bit like the dangerous attraction one feels when looking into an abyss. Like it or not, the sea was in his blood. And he'd never tire of watching the long waves rolling with their lulling rhythmical sound on a strand.

To all appearances the setting sun was plunging head-on into the ocean, splashing the horizon in a triumph of gold. Dark clouds, though, were coming in from the east, where the sky had veered to shades of grey and violet.

"D'you think we'll get rain, Your Majesty?" Malcolm asked of the statue towering over him. The stern man astride the local version of a charger, a multi-legged creature that looked capable of frightening speeds, of course did not answer. Good thing he was alone – Malcolm mused. No more drinking.

And talking of sobriety – or lack thereof: how would Trip and Travis be faring? He had left the two of them in front of second or third pints of the local ale, in the tavern at the back of the square.

Malcolm studied the sky. He wouldn't mind a bit of rain, actually. Even at sunset he found this planet by the unpronounceable name warmer than comfortable. But at least, now that the official visit was over, he was allowed to unzip the top of his uniform and roll up his sleeves; which he promptly did, pushing off the statue and starting on a stroll along the deserted seaside promenade. The aliens of this world, who shared its impossible name, seemed to favour the indoors, at all times of day and night.

The away team had been invited to spend the evening in town, and Malcolm had heaved half a sigh of relief when, after their talks, Archer and T'Pol had politely turned down the offer and returned to the ship with Hoshi; the other half sigh he was keeping for the moment Trip and Travis were going to declare themselves knackered and ready to call it a day – which he hoped would be soon. Having to keep a watchful eye on their hosts, people with two sets of arms each, hadn't been a stroll in the park; and Malcolm really didn't share his crewmates' enthusiasm for – what had Trip called it? – a 'night out of the ordinary'.

Out of the ordinary! What people could do with all those arms and hands when dancing was truly out of the ordinary. Malcolm hoped Trip would keep _his_ hands out of boxes of pebbles and the like, giving a good example for Travis. At the fashionable seafront locale the music had been far too loud, and after bravely suffering it for an hour Malcolm had gone out in search of a few minutes of peace and a bit of fresh air, which he hadn't – the latter – in truth yet found.

Turning to look at the spot of light, bright in the fast falling darkness, that marked the nightclub, he felt a predictable pang of conscience. He should go back. If Trip and Travis were off duty, the Chief of Security, on an alien planet, never really was. Indeed he'd stayed back just to be there in case of need.

A few more minutes – Malcolm told himself. He hated the idea of returning to that din. After keeping focused for so many hours he yearned for some time alone where he could empty his mind and recharge his batteries. This deserted walk along the sea and the soothing sound of the waves were too good to leave.

Just a few more minutes. Now that the sun had set, he was finally feeling the hint of a breeze, which brought with it the pungent smell of salt water. Malcolm turned his face to it and closed his eyes. After all, the _Ghosts_ – as Travis (who else?) had re-baptised this humanoid species, for they were all basically lanky and very pale – seemed quite a peaceful race.

Eyes flashing open, Malcolm swivelled abruptly. Something had awakened his sixth sense. He narrowed his gaze, but it was that time of day when, neither light nor dark, vision was difficult. He stood immobile for a few moments, all senses on the alert. Nothing. He shook his head. If Trip were here he wouldn't waste the occasion to tease him about his paranoid-

"Ah!"

The choked cry sent a shot of adrenaline through his system. Turning once more, Malcolm took a few hurried steps back and managed to make out people scuffling in the distance, not far from the locale's entrance. By then he was already on the run.

In the twilight, from a couple of hundred meters, shapes were rather indistinct; but with every stride the picture was becoming clearer. What the hell... So much for being a peaceful species: two Ghosts were holding Travis still, while a third was thrashing him – and having two sets of arms made the job all the easier, or more hurtful, depending on the point of view.

"Hey!" Malcolm barked. Without a thought for diplomacy, he reached for his phase pistol and set it on stun, as he broke off to walking, some ten metres from the scene. He trained the weapon on the man doing the damage. "Enough!"

He hadn't used a UT, but his tone was clear. Indeed, the alien obeyed, and his partners let go of their victim, who fell to the ground with a groan, and wound into a ball. The three stood by, looking defiantly back; but they seemed to know better than to challenge an armed man.

"Travis," Malcolm called, gaze darting between the Helmsman and his assailants.

The man grunted back something unintelligible, but didn't budge; he looked to be in severe pain. Weapon still trained, Malcolm reached for his communicator.

"Reed to Tucker."

"Malcolm?" Trip's cheerful voice replied a moment later. The rhythmic beat of music could be heard in the background.

"I need you out here immediately, Commander," Malcolm urged. Without waiting for a reply, he shut the communicator and swapped it for the UT. "You have committed an unwarranted act of aggression," he said, barely reining in his anger. He could feel a vein pulsing furiously at the base of his neck. "Step back. Now." For good measure he waved his pistol, eager to get to his fallen comrade. Just then Trip burst out of the place.

"What's going on?" the man asked, blinking to adjust his eyes to the difference in light – hopefully not to clear his mind from the fumes of alcohol. Before Malcolm could open his mouth, Trip let out a muttered curse and ran to kneel by their crewmate.

"Your friend is the one who has committed an unwarranted act of aggression," one of the aliens said boldly. "Do you not punish murderers on your Homeworld?"

Trip, who was gently trying to get Travis to unwind so he could assess his condition, looked up abruptly. "What the hell are you talking about?" he spat back. "We are no murderers!"

"This one is," another alien scoffed, jerking his chin towards Mayweather. "He killed a man."

"You're raving mad," Malcolm said in his dangerous, low voice. "Get us immediate medical assistance."

"Some other type of assistance is on the way," the first aliens replied; and with a nasty smile he crossed one set of arms over his chest.

As if on cue, a couple of men in uniform rushed onto the scene. The aliens all began to confer quickly; too quickly for the UT to translate. Malcolm lowered his phase pistol but could not afford to let his guard down. He remained a few steps away, restraining his eagerness to join Trip by the injured man.

"Commander?" he enquired.

"He's not responding, looks confused... I'm pretty sure he has a broken arm," Trip replied tautly. "He might have internal injuries; we need to get him to a Doctor right away."

Just as he turned to Malcolm, worry etched on his face, the guards – or whatever they were – reached down and grabbed Travis each under one arm, jerking him unceremoniously to his feet. The injured man cried out in pain, his legs unable to sustain him, head lolling.

Trip jumped to his feet in outrage, and Malcolm raised his pistol again, steadying his breathing and his aim. "Put him back down, _gently_," he threatened, voice as cold as ice.

But one of the handy things about having four arms was that with two you could hold on to a man while with the other two you could wield a weapon. Soon they were at a stand-off; Malcolm looking down the barrel of a stick he was pretty sure was not as innocent as it looked.

"We are apprehending this man," the alien behind the weapon said. "He has committed a crime."

"Says who?" Trip's face became a hard mask. "On Earth we have a rule: a man is innocent until proven guilty. And while you're arresting people, you should arrest these three: lynching a man, no matter what he has or has not done, ought to be a crime as well."

"They will respond for the damage they've done," the second guard said, casting the three a reproving look.

"But you two, you'd better stand down," his armed partner added. "Or you'll end up joining your friend in jail." He shot a look at the other aliens. "Let's go. We've stayed out here long enough."

"Commander?" Travis suddenly gasped. He blinked, his breathing ragged.

Trip made to go to him, but the second guard grabbed his weapon and trained it on him.

"They claim you've killed someone, Travis," Trip said.

"What?" Travis looked back in confusion. But then he raised his right hand – his left arm was definitely broken, hanging limply from the guard's grip – and looked at it.

Malcolm let his eyes shift for a moment to it too, and what he saw, even in the badly lit environment, made him cringe.

"Dammit, Travis," Trip said softly, his eyes too having tracked to the man's hand. "What the hell... I left you-"

"You will return to your ship at once," one of the guards interrupted.

Malcolm took a challenging step forward, but found Trip barring his way. The Engineer turned to him, his back to the others, and looked at him straight in the eye; and there was nothing but determination on his face.

"We're not going to be useful to anyone in a prison cell," Trip said, for Malcolm's ears only. He turned again. "Let me get our Doctor. My crewmate needs medical assistance from someone who knows about human physiology. Alien doctors once triggered a dangerous allergic reaction in him."

There was a moment of suspended silence.

"Fine," the guard in charge finally agreed. "Do it. And then get out of here. We'll give you the co-ordinates of a hospital, where your friend will be taken."

TBC

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	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to those of you who have read chapter 1, and cookies to my reviewers!

§ 2 §

The docking clamp grabbed the Shuttlepod with a familiar thump and guided it gently home. Trip powered down the vessel and stood from the pilot's seat. He knew without looking that Malcolm was already at the hatch; the man was charged with such tension that it radiated from him like energy from one of his EM emitters. He could sympathise.

On their flight back they'd discussed what had happened planet-side and... Well, he wouldn't go as far as saying they had argued, but certainly their tones had been fraught with feeling. What it boiled down to was the fact that they both felt a measure of guilt.

Ah, they couldn't really reproach themselves with much – Trip repeated to himself. Travis hadn't been a kid on an outing, requiring adult supervision. But the weight on his heart didn't budge. He couldn't disregard the fact that he had been the higher-ranking officer out of the three; responsible, at least to some extent, for his crewmates.

For the past ten-fifteen minutes, since they had spotted the Enterprise hanging in space through the pod's windscreen, silence had replaced their tense discussion. This didn't change as Trip joined Malcolm at the hatch and exchanged a fleeting glance with him. The green light finally came on and Malcolm raised his hand to the release, but it hovered there, hesitating.

"When you give your report to the Captain," he said, eyes to the deck-plating. "Your duty is to tell him exactly how things went; I understand that."

And without giving Trip the time to open his mouth – or without deferring to rank, which was quite telling – he opened the hatch and made his escape up the stairs that lead to the elevated platform.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? He had no time for subtle messages, what with his frayed nerves and all. Trip repressed the instinct to grab Malcolm by an arm and pull him back down; he'd glimpsed T'Pol waiting at the top of the stairs, hands latched behind her back, and explanations would have to wait. Besides, he knew full well what Malcolm had meant: that he – Trip – should report to the Captain that he – Malcolm – had been delinquent in his duty. Typical.

"The Doctor has arrived safely on the planet," their SIC said, falling in stride as they made for the decon chamber.

"Has he said anything about Travis's condition?" Trip enquired. They had been forced to take off right after contacting the ship, before Phlox had beamed down.

"Not yet."

T'Pol stopped in front of the decon chamber and turned to face them. There was unusual depth in her dark eyes; as close to emotion as you could see in a Vulcan gaze.

"As soon as you are finished here, the Captain awaits you in his ready room. He's trying to speak to the Governor."

* * *

In the decon chamber the soothing blue lights were already on, casting them as weird, angular creatures. Trip passed a hand through his hair. He couldn't cancel the image of their battered friend; and each time his mind's eye unavoidably zoomed in on Travis's hand, which had looked suspiciously stained with something that could well be alien blood. He wished they'd been allowed to speak to the man alone, before being booted off the planet as if they'd had the plague. And talking about speaking to people...

"By the way," he said, turning abruptly to Malcolm, who was pacing pensively behind him, "In case you haven't noticed, it is my habit to give the Capt'n accurate reports. _Always_."

Malcolm looked back belligerently. "What I meant to say-"

"I know perfectly well what you meant to say, dammit," Trip cut him off. "But even if I were inclined to cover up for a friend – which I am not – I wouldn't _need _to. For heaven's sake, Malcolm, you were just talking a walk while _off_ duty."

"I'm the Security Officer," Malcolm said, deep in his chest. He grimaced, shaking his head. "I wasn't particularly keen on spending the night in town. If I'd wanted to be off duty I would've returned to the ship with the Captain and the rest of the away party."

Trip blinked. "You mean to tell me you stayed behind just to watch over us?"

"Commander, Lieutenant, you're free to go," a voice said through the intercom. "You didn't carry back anything untoward."

"Thank God for that," Trip muttered. "Come on." And he preceded Malcolm out of the door.

* * *

A bright green blur hovered around him. Something was attached to his wrist; obviously a band with sensors, because a regular rhythm started registering somewhere, distorted as everything his senses perceived, yet still easily recognisable as a heartbeat.

Travis clenched his teeth against the pain that had him at its mercy, assaulting him from all sides, and was quite certain that the horrible grunting sounds he could hear above the rhythmic beat were coming from himself. He wished his vision could clear, and also his mind. Where was he? What had happened? He'd been dancing with that alien girl…

He tried to ask for Commander Tucker, but found his tongue wasn't obeying. The pain was too distracting, taking all of his energy and mental focus.

* * *

Phlox had rematerialised in a room that had all the aspects of a doctor's office. There was a desk and a bio-bed; and if he hadn't been concerned about the wellbeing of one of the crew he'd have taken a closer look at the charts hanging on the walls, which showed the skeletal, muscular and lymphatic apparata of the Ajfwqa'wes – or were they called Ajfwec'wqals? Something like that. As he paged the ship to say he had arrived safely, however, he did make it a point to notice the way the second set of shorter arms were joined at waist level to the rest of these people's physiology. Amazing.

"Doctor Phlox?" a voice asked.

He turned to see a tall man in a dark green coat standing in the door frame.

"I am Doctor Ga'we."

"Where are we?" Phlox wasted no time and enquired. "Where is Mister Mayweather?"

"This is one of the city's largest hospitals." Doctor Ga'we swept one of his shorter arms. "This way, please."

Outside the door, the place was bustling with activity. They started down a large corridor.

Green seemed to be the traditional colour of medical garbs here, and there was a preponderance of it, with different shades probably indicating different specialisations, or grades of importance. From what Phlox could tell, stretcher-bearers wore a light shade; nurses emerald green and doctors dark forest green.

"Have you assessed my crewmate's injuries?" Phlox asked, casting the quiet alien a side glance.

"Yes," Ga'we said. "But they warned us of allergic reactions, so we have not given him anything."

"Very wise," Phlox agreed.

The trip through corridors and wards seemed interminable. Phlox wondered at some point if it wasn't a ruse to make him lose sense of direction – but then why?

Finally, they got in front of a door that was guarded by a couple of men in uniform. Doctor Ga'we motioned him to go first. Phlox wasted no time and pushed the door open.

Travis lay on a bed, still clad in his uniform. It didn't appear they had done anything to him other than placing him there. No – there was something attached to his wrist, and a monitor showed his heart rate. As Phlox crossed quickly to the man's side, he took in his bruises, unfocused gaze and the fact that he was obviously in considerable pain. Barely repressed grunts and laboured breathing were a testimony to that. Then his eyes tracked to Travis's left arm, and he immediately knew that it was definitely broken.

"Ensign Mayweather, can you hear me?" he asked, quickly opening his bag and taking out a hypospray and his tricorder. Travis turned his face to him and squinted.

"Who?…" he choked out.

"It's Phlox, Ensign."

Phlox pressed the hypospray to Mayweather's neck and emptied a hefty dose of painkiller into his bloodstream. Seconds later he watched the man's taut features relax and his breathing ease.

"Am I in sickbay?" Travis slurred groggily. His eyes drifted closed.

"I'm afraid not." Phlox passed his medical scanner over his patient's body, frowning at the readings. "You're in hospital, on the planet. Can you remember what happened?"

There was a beat of silence while Travis seemed to process the question.

"I was dancing..."

"And then?" Phlox prompted, pulling one eyelid up to examine the eye.

"I... I don't know," Travis said. "What happened?"

Phlox turned off the light, satisfied that the man had not suffered a concussion. "You have been beaten," he said. He took a blood sample and turned to Doctor Ga'we. "He's strangely confused. Plus he has a broken arm; a couple of cracked ribs and various bruises. I'll need to use your facilities."

"Ribs?" Doctor Ga'we enquired, with a frown.

"I'll show you in a moment."

"Beaten?" Travis breathed out, blinking. "Why?"

Phlox sighed. "Let's leave this for later, Ensign. First I want to treat your injuries."

TBC

Always looking forward to any comments


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you, once again, to those of you who commented.

§3§

Trip stopped in front of Archer's ready room and raised his hand to the bell. Like Malcolm earlier in the Shuttlepod, he let it hover there for a moment, while he muttered, low enough that nobody would hear it, "Don't expect me to accuse you of negligence, Lieutenant." Only then did he press the bell.

"Commander," Malcolm muttered back, almost a warning; but Trip ignored him. He wasn't going to bow to Malcolm's over-rigorous conscience – he decided, as Archer's 'come' floated out of the comm. link. He triggered the door open, and they stepped inside the room just as the Captain stood from his chair.

Trip latched his arms behind his back. "We've come straight from Decon, Capt'n." Out of the corner of his eye he caught Malcolm, at his side, straightening to a taut attention; but the man's discomfort was probably lost on Archer, whose green eyes were veiled with concern.

"I've just spoken with Phlox," the Captain informed them, his tone more serious than usual. "Travis has a broken arm, cracked ribs and an assortment of bruises."

Trip blew out a breath. "Well, I was afraid it'd be worse. At least it's nothing Phlox can't fix."

"In addition to his physical injuries, he is confused," Archer went on. "Phlox says he can't remember what happened."

"A concussion?" Malcolm wondered. "He took a nasty beating, Sir."

Archer rubbed his chin. "Phlox's crossed that out. He's taken a blood sample, will let us know what he finds." He turned to Trip, narrowing his gaze to a sharp point. "What the hell did happen down there?"

Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Trip braced himself.

"We went to this night club the Government Officials had suggested," he began. "Near the seafront. Ya know, the usual." With a slight jerk of his head he provided, "Loud music, dancin', boisterous young people, booze…"

"Drugs?"

"Not as far as I could tell, Sir," Malcolm put in carefully.

Trip shot him a quick glance. So the man _had_ analysed the place with the eye of the Security Officer. But of course he would have; even if, by any chance, he had remained with them on the planet for pleasure and not for work.

"And?" Archer prompted, as he started pacing.

"Well, we sat down and had a couple of glasses of the local Ale," Trip went on. He could hear the measure of self-consciousness that had entered his voice. Though he knew it made no sense, those glasses of Ale weighed on his conscience. They could have dulled his awareness and made him overlook-

"We'd checked that it'd be safe for consumption, of course, and the scanner had showed a low alcohol content," Malcolm quietly tailed, as if he had read Trip's mind. Now that Trip thought of it, though, he – Malcolm – had kept a tight rein on his own drinking.

"We chatted – much as one can chat over loud music." Trip resumed. _Terrible _loud music – he almost commented. "Then Malcolm went out for a breath of fresh air." And he hadn't blamed the man. Travis and he had not followed him only because… "A couple of girls had come to sit at our table. At some point Travis went to dance with one of them."

Damn, hadn't he learned anything from Risa? Trip suspected that the same thought had crossed Malcolm's mind more than once. The man must have bit his tongue not to voice it.

Archer reached the wall and turned. "And you didn't?"

"I didn't feel like getting into a sweat; it was already too warm as it was." Trip passed a hand through his hair. "I got talkin' to the other girl and lost sight of Travis. Next I knew, Malcolm was urgin' me to join him outside. Hell, Capt'n…" Shaking his head, he fell silent. There really was nothing else to say.

Archer turned to Malcolm. "What did you see?"

Malcolm's face was the usual mask, but it was his eyes you had to look at, to know the turmoil that was inside him.

"I'm afraid not much, Sir. I was... taking a stroll along the seafront promenade," he forced out, "when I heard a cry. I rushed back, and saw Travis being beaten by three aliens. I managed to stop them, but the damage had been done."

Malcolm lowered his gaze to the deck-plating, and Archer took a deep, pensive breath.

"What about these allegations, that Travis killed someone?" he enquired darkly.

There was a second or two of silence. The haunting image of Travis's hands preyed on Trip's mind again, and he couldn't push it away.

"It's ridiculous, Capt'n, but…"

Archer came to stop deliberately in front of him. "But?" he prompted.

"I don't know," Trip huffed, passing once again a hand through his hair. "There _was _a substance on Travis's hands…"

"Blood?"

"We can't assume that," Malcolm warned.

"Dammit, we can't rule it out either," Trip countered.

"It could've been anything, for heaven's sake." Breaking his stance, Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest in a stubborn gesture. "We mustn't lose sight of what we know for sure," he reasoned, "which is that Travis is no murderer. _If_ he did kill someone, he did it either under the effect of some substance, or in self-defence."

Archer had resumed pacing, ducking his head under the low beams.

"Trip, how much time elapsed between the time you last saw Travis and the time Malcolm paged you?" he enquired after a moment of thought.

Trip frowned. "I'd say about ten minutes. Not more than fifteen."

"Little time to kill a man," Archer wondered out loud.

"Enough."

"More than enough, for that matter." Malcolm's face twitched, as he restrained an uncomfortable grimace. "I can confirm the Commander's estimate, Sir. I spent about twenty minutes on my own."

His clipped accent and hoarse voice were, once again, eloquent. Archer finally seemed to become aware of it. He stopped and turned to give his Security Officer a long, assessing look.

"You weren't on duty, Malcolm," he said knowingly. "Don't blame yourself."

Trip knew the words were wasted on the man. "Have you spoken to the Governor, Capt'n?"

Archer's eyes shifted for a moment to the comm link on his desk, and he frowned. "They told me he'd get in touch with me. That was half an hour ago," he complained.

"Sir, I think we should find the girl who was dancing with Travis," Malcolm said. "Surely she must know something."

Rubbing his forehead, Trip winced. "We were just booted off the planet. Can't really go back without an invitation."

"There are ways to get around that, Captain," Malcolm suggested, after a second of hesitation. His arms were still crossed, and his hands tightened, as if anticipating resistance.

Indeed, Archer shook his head doubtfully. "Are you saying you want to beam down there without them knowing? Too dangerous, Lieutenant."

"I know I can do it, Sir…"

The comm. beeped, interrupting them. Archer hurried to the desk and opened the link.

"The Governor, Sir," Hoshi's voice said.

"Finally. Put him through."

And with a dismissing nod at Trip and Malcolm, Archer slipped into his seat.

* * *

Phlox checked the flow of the IV line hydrating Travis and adjusted the drip to a little faster. His gaze tracked back to the sleeping man. The Ajfwqa'wes had some useful technology for fixing broken bones, even though their skeletal structure was less dense than a Human's, but the many bruises that mapped Mayweather's body could definitely benefit from his Osmotic Eels. The problem was that he didn't want to ask permission to return to Enterprise, for fear that once there he'd be forbidden to come back. Right now his patient needed him at his bedside, with or without Osmotic Eels.

As he marvelled at the efficiency of the bone-restructuring machine – the fracture in Mayweather's arm was being healed under his very eyes – Phlox wondered how the Governor would take the news that he'd found a substance in the crewman's blood; if he'd show surprise; and if he did, if it would be genuine. Doctor Ga'we had seemed truly in the dark as to how the drug might have ended up in their patient's bloodstream.

Well, Phlox knew how Archer would take the news. And Mister Reed. As soon as he had a moment of privacy, he must try to speak to the Captain.

* * *

The moment Governor Ety'we cut the link with Enterprise, the sun slipped off his face, chased away by a front of stormy thoughts. That Archer was a stubborn man, and wasn't going to accept very easily the idea that his crewman would have to remain on Ajfwqa and be judged according to their laws.

Touching his desk-vision, he paged the General Hospital.

"Get me Doctor Dvo'we," he instructed the person who appeared.

A moment later his desk surface was filled with the face of a middle-aged man. The Governor winced inwardly, and with another feathery touch downsized the image to about half. That was better. Dvo'we was a cantankerous man, a trait which in time had chiselled his face to harsh angles, not particularly pleasing to the eye.

"The Captain of the alien ship will be visiting," he told the physician, without preamble.

Dvo'we's light eyebrows lifted questioningly over hard, aquamarine eyes. "I thought you were going to instruct me to send the Denobulan Doctor away."

"All things in due time. How is our patient?"

"Getting better. Ga'we and the Denobulan are seeing to it. But he could have been damaged very seriously."

The Governor tightened his hold on the arms of his desk-chair while he banged a third fist on the desk, making the image tremble. "Someone will pay for that!"

Clenching his jaw, he reined in his anger. If Dvo'we was cantankerous, he had to admit to being rather short-tempered.

"See that the delegation from Enterprise is treated with all due respect. And make sure the guards never leave our patient unattended." he said.

And without waiting for a reply, he cut the conversation short.

* * *

The shuttlepod broke the thermobarrier and entered the planet's atmosphere, gliding towards its goal: new landing coordinates from those they'd been given on their official visit, just hours before.

At the helm, Malcolm checked his instruments and made a slight course correction for a less steep descent angle, plotting an ample curve that would take them over the sea before swerving straight north towards their target. He was flying the vessel unassisted, for Archer, though sitting at navigation, was deeply absorbed in his thoughts.

"Captain," T'Pol said, breaking the silence for the first time since the three of them had left the ship, "what exactly is the purpose of this visit?"

Malcolm cringed. He had served with the Vulcan officer long enough to know that sometimes she sounded irritating only because she worded things in an odd way or was too direct – both a cultural thing – but he wasn't sure that in his current frame of mind Archer would make allowances for extenuating circumstances.

"I have a man injured and accused of murder," Archer indeed bit back, "and you ask me why I am visiting?"

As he input a command to slow the pod down, Malcolm could picture T'Pol's eyebrows lifting.

"If you wish to check Mister Mayweather's condition personally, that is understandable – if not strictly necessary," she replied. "I feel I ought to remind you, however, that we cannot interfere with these people's judicial system."

"Thank you T'Pol. But rest assured, we aren't going down to break Travis out of prison – or hospital, as it happens."

Not _yet_ – Malcolm hoped in the secrecy of his thoughts. His mind, however, kept bringing him back to the time he and the Captain had been captured by aliens who'd thought them enemies. That time Archer had been ready to sacrifice both their lives, not to interfere with a new culture. He dearly hoped that if bad came to worse the man would not feel he had to leave Travis to his destiny. If he had found it hard to accept being hanged in order to preserve that planet's natural order of things, now he wouldn't be able to tolerate the idea of Mayweather coming to any harm, responsible as he felt.

Malcolm heard T'Pol shift on her seat, behind him. "What I meant to say," she began.

"We're only here to see Travis and sniff the air," Archer interrupted.

"Sniff the air?"

"It can be done even wearing a nasal numbing agent. It means-"

"I am familiar with the Human expression," T'Pol quite uncharacteristically cut him off. Without losing her usual poise, she added, "I was simply wondering what exactly you intend to do in order to _sniff the air_."

"We are approaching the city, Sir," Malcolm said, happy to put and end to the discussion. Archer and T'Pol could get into all kinds of verbal skirmishes; they were almost as bad as he and Trip. Of course a man driven by instinct like Archer wasn't likely to think along the same lines as one ruled by logic, like T'Pol. Not that they didn't respect one another. The important thing was that they complemented each other well; Malcolm wondered if they realised that.

"What time is it, on the planet?" Archer enquired.

"Ten twenty-three in the morning," T'Pol provided with Vulcan accuracy.

Squinting against the glare of the sun-lit sea, Malcolm repressed a sigh. On Enterprise it was nearing o-two-hundred hours, and his body was sending him very clear messages. But as soon as the Governor had granted them permission to visit, Archer had wasted no time jumping on a shuttlepod. He couldn't blame the man, considering how reticent the Ajfwqa'wes had become after the incident. They might have second thoughts about letting them visit.

The city extended in front of them now. Malcolm could make out the long sea promenade with the statue of Fhniet'we I and the river that cut the city in two. Switching to manual, he steered the vessel to follow its course, from the wide delta inland. He could've left the automatic pilot all the way, but he actually liked flying the pod, not to mention that a bit of action would help him get out of the lethargy the idleness and lack of sleep had brought him. He welcomed the rush of adrenaline that coursed through him. This was more like it. Malcolm had no doubt that any residual weariness was going to dissipate now; the tension of making sure his Captain and SIC came back safe would see to that.

"We'll be landing in about six minutes, Captain," he announced.

He took a moment to survey the panorama. He had done this on their official visit; but it wouldn't hurt to do it again. The city wasn't very large but was tightly built. It hugged the river, extending more along its course than along the sea shore. Malcolm thought that was peculiar. All the marine cities he knew had a large front on the sea. Here, though, it stretched for no more than perhaps a couple of kilometres along its shore. After that, the buildings tapered into thick and deep-green vegetation.

"That must be the hospital," he thought out loud. A large building set in what looked like well-kept gardens stood out at three o'clock. To one side of it was a landing pad. Three people could be seen standing at its edge. Malcolm sharpened his gaze. "I believe that's our welcoming party." He had recognised the unmistakable shape of Doctor Phlox. It couldn't be missed, actually, in the midst of people as thin and tall as the Ajfwqa'wes.

Docile under his piloting, the shuttlepod designed a last curve and lined up for the final descent.

* * *

"I am sure you will find that we are taking care of your crewman as well as we can be expected."

The meaning of the words didn't match the tone in which they'd been delivered. Archer gave Doctor Dvo'we, the older of the two Ajfwqa'we physicians, a polite – if not exactly warm – smile. It might be the UT, or the different culture, or the fact that he had eyes as cold as a winter day after sunset; but the man didn't strike him as very friendly; he was rather brusque and seemed to say 'keep this short'. If this was his bedside manner he was poorly cut for the profession he had chosen.

"Captain, Mister Mayweather's arm is healing quickly," Phlox said, following him inside an elevator. "The bone-restructuring treatments..."

Archer lent only half an ear to the technical descriptions, taking comfort, though, in his CMO's optimistic nature; not for the first time he found himself quite fond of it. It sure made the other doctor's attitude seem even more aloof.

"You have received the report I sent, Captain, haven't you?" he heard Phlox enquire.

If it hadn't been for the sudden change of tone, he might have missed the question altogether, absorbed as he was in his thoughts.

"You mean a written report?" he asked with a frown. "No. When did you send it?"

"The Hospital's external comm system was down for a few hours," Dvo'we butted in.

Archer exchanged a look with Phlox, and knew right away the Denobulan didn't like that one bit. But there was no time to ask anything, for the elevator stopped and the doors opened.

"This way," Ga'we, the other native Doctor, much younger and – Archer thought – more affable, said, waving a hand.

They exited onto a wide corridor. Archer felt Malcolm, beside him, tense; a second later he knew why: two guards were standing at one of the doors along the hallway. It was not difficult to imagine whose room that must be.

* * *

Not surprisingly, there was only one occupant. He was lying on his side, his back to the door, and did not shift at the sound of people entering.

Archer walked swiftly to the bed, rounding it so as to see his Helmsman's face. What he saw made him curse inwardly. Travis's features were swollen out of shape and his dark complexion did nothing to hide the bluish bruises. This was as bad as that time the man had been beaten by the Tandarans. "Ensign?" he called softly, but got no response. Phlox was at his side in a flash, checking monitors and examining his patient.

"He was conscious just minutes ago," he said puzzledly. His jovial countenance had turned to full concentration. "Still confused, but awake. I don't understand..."

"Doctor?" Archer pressed.

"He was given a mild sedative," Dvo'we answered instead. "When your Doctor left, our patient got excessively agitated."

Phlox turned onto his alien colleague. "That is unacceptable," he said cuttingly. "This is _my_ patient, and you should have asked my advice before administering any medicine."

"You were unavailable."

"That's no excuse. And why didn't you mention anything when you met us at the landing pad?"

Archer had hardly ever seen Phlox so irritated. Not that he blamed him. He couldn't help wondering, though, if the missing report had anything to do with it.

"I didn't deem it necessary. I am a doctor as well, in case you hadn't noticed."

Dvo'we's cold eyes flashed with satisfaction. Archer's own anger had just about reached his throat – from where, given another bunch of seconds it would have undoubtedly spilt – when Ga'we spoke up.

"Something is wrong, Doctor Phlox," he said tautly. "Your patient's breathing is getting laboured."

Phlox reached for his tricorder. "Looks like an allergic reaction," he diagnosed darkly a moment later.

TBC

Longer chapter equals more reviews? :-) Don't forget about the cookies!


	4. Chapter 4

Once again, thank you to my readers and reviewers.

§ 4 §

Travis's breathing was coming in short gasps. Perspiration covered his brow. With a rather unfriendly 'excuse me', Phlox dodged Dvo'we and rushed to a table, on which stood his medical case.

Archer stepped away from the bed to give him room, and in doing so caught the silent exchange that passed between the two alien doctors. Interesting – he mused: those two didn't exactly seem to be buddies. Ga'we had tossed his colleague a disapproving glare, and the older physician had returned a look that, put into words, would've been a firm 'mind your own business'. When Dvo'we's eyes shifted to Travis, however, Archer detected a hint of concern, which he hadn't expected and which sent his own worry up a few notches. His attention was drawn back to Phlox, who had loaded a hypospray and returned to empty it into Travis's bloodstream

"Commander Tucker specifically warned you that Ensign Mayweather is susceptible to allergic reactions," a well-known clipped accent sounded in the silence.

Malcolm had remained near the door, shoulders to it, arms crossed over his chest. He and T'Pol had been so quiet that Archer had almost forgotten their presence. There was a dangerous glint in the Lieutenant's gaze; something Archer had seen other times and that made him uncomfortable. He was suddenly struck by the thought that it was a good thing Reed was a principled man.

"How serious is he, Doctor?" Dvo'we enquired, ignoring the not-so-veiled accusation.

"He'll recover, but this would be easier if we were on Enterprise," Phlox muttered back. "An oxygen mask would ease his symptoms."

Archer took a step towards Dvo'we. "Can't you arrange for one here?"

"We don't have such a thing as an _oxygen mask_," the alien physician said. "We breathe through our skin. This," – and he pointed to the wide and flat protuberance in the middle of his face – "may have a slight resemblance to what I understand is part of your breathing apparatus, but it's actually the organ that controls our balance and sense of direction."

"Then I demand to take my man back to the ship," Archer said firmly.

"He is a prisoner; accused of murder."

"Captain." Phlox's eyes came up briefly from his tricorder. "I think you should know that in the report that _could not be sent_ I'd explained that I found a chemical substance in Mister Mayweather's blood."

"He was drugged," Malcolm said, with an acerbic snort. "Why am I not surprised?"

Archer turned to see him uncross his arms and instinctively lower a hand to where his phase pistol would have been, had he been allowed to wear one, and he flashed his Lieutenant a quelling look. "Go on," he told Phlox.

"The substance would impair the neurotransmitters in the Ensign's brain and cause confusion; hallucinations, even."

Archer narrowed his gaze. "Have you reported your findings to anyone else?"

"I shared them with Doctor Ga'we."

"I informed Doctor Dvo'we," the man in question said, with a hesitant glance in his colleague's direction.

Archer turned to the older physician. "And – I should hope – you have told the Governor," he said, pinning the man with a piercing look. "This is highly suspicious; it is evidence in favour of my crewman. It must be reported to whoever is investigating the murder."

Dvo'we wasn't shaken. "It may provide attenuating circumstances, but I wouldn't place much hope in it, if I were you," he dismissed, with a wave of his shorter right arm. "The chemical substance your Doctor found in your man's blood is probably the result of an alien drink not agreeing with his physiology. If it were so, he would still be held responsible for the death he has caused, according to this planet's laws."

"Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed drank the same beverage," T'Pol pointed out, speaking for the first time. "And suffered no side effects."

"But this man," Dvo'we countered, pointing to Travis, "as we can all see, is prone to allergic reactions."

"Speaking of which, I would suggest you continue this somewhere else," Phlox urged them sternly. "I need to attend to my patient. And, Doctor Dvo'we..." he called as the group moved towards the door. "I want oxygen and a mask beamed down from Enterprise. Captain, please, arrange for it right away."

Archer nodded, and followed the others out of the room.

* * *

The waiting room where they'd been asked to stay was oppressively neutral. Archer paced its length one more time, looking for one reassuring feature, something even slightly uplifting, but there was none to be found: low, squarish armchairs in an off-white colour that had turned dirty-white with use; light grey walls without so much as one picture; no windows – the ceiling itself provided the illumination, casting down a rather cold light; no decorations, no flowers, not even a few magazines… Damn, but the place was depressing. If it wasn't for some obscure reason designed to be, these people were outright dull.

"Captain," T'Pol said from the corner where she'd been standing, perfectly immobile, "If, as it appears, Mister Mayweather will have to appear before a court of justice, we should become adequately knowledgeable about the laws of this planet, and of this society in particular, so we are able to defend him."

"I think we should transport him out and leave, Sir," Malcolm said darkly, from the opposite corner of the room. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"That would be irresponsible." T'Pol took a couple of steps towards him. "We cannot disregard the fact that three Ajfwqa'wes claim to have seen him kill a person."

Malcolm shook his head fiercely. "With all due respect, can't you see, Subcommander? He was set up. I am certain of it."

Archer came to stop in between them and raised both hands. "Enough," he said, more abruptly than he had intended. He may welcome his officers to express their opinions but right now these two seemed more like two boxers, and not only because they were at opposite corners of the room. "T'Pol: as soon as we get back on Enterprise, dig up all you can on these people's laws."

"Vulcans never made contact with them. We shall have to rely on what they will be willing to share with us."

"Brilliant," Malcolm muttered.

Archer grimaced. "Malcolm..." He turned to face his Security Officer. "I agree with you, I think Travis was set up. But we aren't out here to act like cowboys. We'll have to play by the rules. And I can't believe I must remind _you_, of all people."

"Sir, if Travis was set up it means for some reason they want him accused of murder," Malcolm said, passing a frustrated hand through his hair. "We can read all the law books we want, but it won't matter one bit: they'll find a way to prove him guilty."

There was an element of truth in that, which sent a shiver down Archer's back. And he really didn't feel like considering the option of having to sacrifice a crewman on the altar of 'intergalactic propriety'.

He was still mulling this when the door opened, and a man entered. Archer had never seen him before; not that he looked very different from all the others: tall and very pale. This one wore no green garb, therefore he must be no doctor.

"My name is Reh'we," the man said. "I am Governor Ety'we's secretary."

He looked at each of them in turn; then took a step in the right direction.

"Captain Archer, the equipment your Doctor required has been delivered. There is no need for you to stay. You and your crewmen will be escorted to your vessel, and you will leave at once."

Archer narrowed his gaze, irritated; this man needed to work a bit on his diplomatic skills. "I want to speak to my Doctor first; make sure he has everything he needs."

"I'm sorry. You will do as I say. You'll be able to speak to your Doctor soon enough: in a few hours, once your crewman's indisposition has passed, he will be ordered to return to your ship as well."

Archer took a menacing step forward. "That _indisposition_, as you call it, is a dangerous reaction caused by your Doctors' ignorance about Human physiology and my crewman's in particular," he spat out. "I demand that Doctor Phlox is allowed to remain until he will deem Ensign Mayweather well enough to be dismissed from the hospital."

Reh'we's amber eyes hardened. "You are in no position to demand anything."

Archer felt his blood boil. He took another step, but there was a restraining hand on his arm. He turned none too kindly and was surprised to see it was Malcolm's. Somehow the Lieutenant had silently moved to his side. "Captain," he warned in a low, cavernous voice. Jerking his arm away, Archer glared at Reh'we. "I want to speak to the Governor."

"He doesn't want to speak to you." Reh'we's secondary right hand pressed a metal plaque he wore on his belt, and a fraction of a second later guards burst in.

In a flash Malcolm was standing before him, and Archer wondered, with the mismatched amusement that sometimes breaks into a dire situation, how the man proposed to defend him against three guards, unarmed as he was.

"You will leave at once," Reh'we repeated.

"Captain," Malcolm said, over his shoulder, "I'm afraid we have no option."

Archer clenched his jaw. He could see that for himself.

TBC

I have a feeling some people might not like cookies, so how about real Italian icecream for a review?... ;-)


	5. Chapter 5

Loads of ice-cream to my reviewers! I know from experience how difficult it can be to remember who is who when in a story there are a few original characters (especially alien OC with names all ending with 'we'!). So here is a small help:

Governor Ety'we

Reh'we, his secretary

Ga'we, younger doctor

Dvo'we, older doctor

§ 5 §

"Doctor, may I have a word?"

Dvo'we turned his head to see his younger colleague fall in step with him, but didn't slow down as he hurried along the corridor to one of the main labs. He wasn't exactly happy about 'having a word' with Ga'we.

"Make it quick," he said tersely. "I'm busy."

"It's about Doctor Phlox's patient, as you might guess."

Dvo'we heaved an inner sigh. Good gracious, the idealism of youth! Ga'we was way too principled. Indeed that's why the man had been left in the dark, in spite of his brilliant mind.

"Why did you give him a sedative, given we had been warned about possible side effects to alien drugs?"

"I believe I have already answered that question: because the patient had become too agitated." The explanation was a weak one, so Dvo'we stopped and fixed icy-cold eyes in Ga'we's deep-purple ones. "Is this what you're wasting my time about?" he attacked, "or is something else on your mind?" He could be intimidating, when he wanted to, had always had the gift, and now he put it to good use.

"I…" Ga'we faltered for a moment; but, straightening his shoulders, he went on, "Have you dismissed the possibility that the Human was actually drugged on purpose? I am sure that, like everyone else, you have noticed that he could be very useful for our research."

And so the greenhorn was bolder than he had expected. Damn that traffic accident, fate had played them a dirty trick. When Mayweather had been brought to hospital he was supposed to have been the one to receive him, if it hadn't been for that stupid road block. Instead it had been Ga'we, and now the man was sticking to the case like a limpet. This was going to be a problem.

Dvo'we sharpened his gaze even more. "I haven't dismissed anything. And now, if you'll excuse me…"

And without giving the other man time to reply, he hurried off.

* * *

Phlox turned to the door opening, relaxing when he saw it was Doctor Ga'we. If he was a good judge of personality – and he deemed he hadn't earned a degree in psychology for nothing – he'd swear Ga'we was a fine young man, unlike his older colleague, who inspired only negative feelings in him.

"How is your patient?" the man enquired, with the kindness Phlox expected of someone whose profession was healing people.

Travis, who'd been conscious for the past hour, stirred, turning his head to the voice.

"As you can see he's a lot better," Phlox replied gleefully. Optimism had returned to his voice now that Mayweather was out of danger. "In a couple of days he'll be back on his feet."

Travis pushed aside the oxygen mask that covered his mouth and nose. "That long?" he complained.

Guiding the mask back in place, Phlox chuckled. "Now, now, Ensign, don't you start acting like Mister Reed." Secretly, though, he was happy about the grumble: it was a sure sign that his patient was indeed feeling better.

"Nobody is ever fond of staying in a hospital bed," Ga'we commented. "I guess it's a constant of the universe."

"We couldn't really expect otherwise, now, could we?" Phlox countered light-heartedly. But a more sombre part of him couldn't help reflecting that for Ensign Mayweather right now it was unfortunately either a hospital bed or a prison cell.

"I suppose you're right," Ga'we agreed.

A smile crossed the alien physician's masticatory apparatus, which ran uninterrupted from one side to the other of his mouth. Phlox observed it, intrigued. "Is that bone, or…?" he puzzled, pointing to it.

"A special, denser bone." A moment later a cloud passed over Ga'we's countenance, darkening it. "Phlox, I need to talk to you."

He glanced warily at Travis, looking conflicted, so Phlox rounded the bed and guided him to a corner of the room where they could have more privacy. "What is it?" he asked.

"I probably shouldn't be telling you this," Ga'we blew out, shorter arms waving in a frustrated gesture, "but I suspect Doctor Dvo'we is not telling us the entire truth."

Phlox, who'd had the exact same feeling, furrowed his brow. "In what way?"

"I think your patient _was_ drugged; I think Dvo'we is well aware of it; and I think the sedative he gave him…"

Again the young physician hesitated. "Go on," Phlox encouraged.

Ga'we opened his mouth; then winced, shaking his head. "No, this is all wrong. It's not right for me to make allegations without having definite proof." His mouth curved in a lopsided smirk. "I'm sorry. I'd better go, before I say something I might regret."

"Will you at least let me know if-"

The door was swung open rather unceremoniously, cutting Phlox off. Two guards entered.

"Doctor Phlox, we have been ordered to escort you. You are to return to your ship," one of them said.

Phlox blinked, stunned. "There must be a mistake. I have a patient to attend to," he said firmly. He started towards Mayweather, but the guard barred his way, while his partner remained by the door.

"No mistake. You will follow us, whether willingly or by force."

"Doc?" Travis called.

A glance in his direction told Phlox that he had removed his oxygen mask and was looking warily onto the scene. "Excuse me," Phlox spat out, eyes hard as rock. The guard held them for a moment; then stepped aside with a stern, "Gather your things."

"Who gave the order?" Phlox heard Ga'we ask.

"The Governor, of course."

"Does the Governor realise I am a physician on duty call?" Phlox enquired irritably.

"I understand he has consulted Doctor Dvo'we, who's confirmed the Human is well enough that he no longer needs a private physician."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Phlox hurried to push Travis, who was trying to sit up straighter, gently back down. "Don't, Ensign," he scolded mildly. He made to guide the oxygen mask back in place, but Travis wouldn't have it. "What's going on?" he enquired, eyes wide with concern.

Phlox pursed his lips. "I am forced to return to Enterprise. But don't worry, Ensign: you have recovered well enough that my presence is no longer needed, strictly speaking. Your arm is almost healed, and your allergic reaction is under control. Your bruises will be there for a few more days, but they would have even if I had been allowed to remain." He frowned pensively. "My only worry is that you might once again be given something that doesn't agree with your physiology."

"Doctor, I will see to it that it doesn't happen," Ga'we interrupted. "I will look after Mister Mayweather personally."

His purple eyes were deep and intense. Phlox looked into them for a long moment, wondering what mysterious concerns the physician had not shared with him. "Thank you," he eventually said. "Let me show you what drugs can be safely administered to our patient."

* * *

T'Pol pressed the comm. link. "Yes?" she enquired tersely. The call was coming at a bad time, interrupting her meditation.

"Subcommander, the Ajfwqa'we Ministry of Intergalactic Affairs has sent the legal info you requested," Hoshi's voice came back. "Would you like me to download it onto a padd and bring it to you?"

T'Pol hesitated, torn between her duty and the desire to resume her routine.

"Subcommander?"

"Please, Ensign," she finally replied.

It would be difficult to find the necessary concentration now, T'Pol thought, looking longingly at the lit candles. She knelt by them and with measured gestures put each one off, watching for a moment the thin threads of smoke rise to the ceiling. The emotions of her crewmates on that planet, and especially on the shuttlepod rides, had been strong; she had been looking forward to finding her centre again; but if she was honest with herself she was also somewhat _curious_ to see how much legal information the Ajfwqa'wes were willing to share. Yes, meditation would have to wait.

Her doorbell rang and she rose to welcome her visitor.

* * *

"Trip..."

Trip turned and broke his pace to wait for Malcolm, and the two of them resumed along the corridor side by side.

"I can't believe we're letting them do this," Malcolm muttered.

"What, send Phlox away?" Trip shot his friend a look: the man had the lined face of someone who had divorced from his bed; but could he blame him? The situation was a Security conundrum with the added bonus of a few pangs of conscience. "I don't like it any more than you do, Malcolm, but it's their planet..."

"Keep Travis," Malcolm retorted. "We _know_ he's no bloody murderer, for heaven's sake!"

The vehemence of his tone made Trip slow down; finally he came to a stop. "I appreciate what you're tryin' to say," Trip said firmly, turning to face him, "but we can't take the law into our own hands, Lieutenant. It just wouldn't be right." He had used Malcolm's rank on purpose, to help him rein in his feelings, and he did get some result.

"So we should let them put him on trial?" Malcolm countered. "Let these... Ajf-_whatever_ do to him whatever they do to their murderers?" His fury had tapered down; only doubt remained in his voice.

"I think we should try to find out the truth, first of all," Trip reasoned.

Malcolm looked back numbly for a moment; then heaved a deep sigh, briefly closing his eyes. "Yeah," he said wearily. "But how in the blody hell am I going to do that from here?"

"We're gonna to find a way," Trip said positively. "Malcolm, I know you're takin' this personally, and that it's more in your area of expertise, but you're not alone here: we're all going to help get Travis back. Right now T'Pol and Hoshi are studyin' these people's laws to try and find a loophole."

"Look..." Malcolm rubbed his eyes, looking to gather the will to go on. "I may be my usual pessimistic self, but believe me, that's not going to help. They _want_ Travis, for some reason; no one will convince me of the contrary. A simple transport would solve the problem, and we could be out of the system in a flash. You know as well as I do that these people's warp-capable ships are no match to Enterprise..."

Trip shook his head. "For the moment, the one transport we're gonna make is to get Phlox back." He jerked his head in the direction leading to the transporter. "That's where I'm headed now. You coming?"

TBC

Soon you will have also Travis's POV on all this...


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks a million to my 4 faithful reviewers: your comments are greatly appreciated! In this chapter finally Travis is coherent enough to express some thoughts...

§ 6 §

The strong light of the planet's moon was filtering through the window in the room, designing a neat square on the floor. Unable to sleep, Travis turned on his back, cushioning his head on his right arm. Wouldn't it be nice if that square were a transporter pad; or if this were only a nightmare?

It was a nightmare: a very real one.

Ever since he had regained a modicum of mental focus, he'd been racking his brain, but it was as if a portion of his life had been stolen away from him. He could remember the girl, her stunning blue-violet eyes, of a shade that was definitely alien; her exotic clothes; her hands on his waist and on his shoulders, guiding him in the sinuous dance; and then… then he had woken up in a sea of pain.

Well, at least that was better, though he was still sore where he was bruised – which was in enough parts of his body to make finding a comfortable position almost impossible. His left arm was weak, but it was healing remarkably fast. His ribs were tender but in one piece. His allergic reaction had passed. All in all he felt more or less okay, and if that was reassuring on one hand, it wasn't on the other, because it meant that he would soon be made to leave the relatively safe haven of this room.

Travis shifted again. His bruises weren't the only obstacle to falling asleep; he was too troubled. With a quick decision, he threw his legs off the rather tall bed. What the hell, maybe it was time to get back on his two feet. Tentatively, he lowered himself on the ground, hands on the bed behind him to keep his balance. He felt dizzy but no wonder: how long had it been since his last decent meal? The liquid stuff they had obliged him to swallow was even worse than that Tandaran grub, that time.

After a moment he ventured to let go, and shuffled to the window. It wasn't pitch dark outside, with a full moon, and he studied the view: this must be the rear of the hospital, because there were no outside lights; he could see that his room was high off the ground – on the fourth or fifth floor, he reckoned – no chance to escape from here, if he'd wanted to. Far in the distance he could make out the lights of the city, but he had no idea in which direction the sea was.

His head was still spinning; his legs felt weak. He'd better not faint on the floor and add other damage to his already battered self. He turned to return to the bed but swayed and lost his balance, bumping his leg on the table set against the wall, near the window. An unexpected pain made him wince. Carefully, he raised his hospital robe and felt the spot, at the top of his left leg: there was something thick there, a medication of some sort. What the hell? He didn't remember Phlox mentioning any leg injury. Puzzled, Travis stared for a long moment at the small pad. Should he dare remove it?

"Mister Mayweather?"

The unexpected voice, though soft, made him jump and he let go of the robe, which fell back in place. He grabbed the table edge to keep upright. The door had opened, and someone was silhouetted against the corridor light. The person switched on the light. Travis squinted briefly against the glare, but sighed in relief when he recognised his visitor. "Doctor Ga'we," he greeted. The physician looked at the empty bed, and he felt obliged to explain, "I was tired of lying down."

A warm smile lit Ga'we's face. "That's fine. It can only do you good to get up a little."

It wasn't exactly the response Travis had expected – Phlox would have given him hell for getting up without permission – and it had the power to defuse his tension.

"I thought I'd check if you were sleeping comfortably," Ga'we said coming closer. "Are you having trouble?"

Travis grimaced. "Too much on my mind."

"I can give you something to help you relax, if you wish. Doctor Phlox has left me an assortment of safe medicines."

It was tempting. But then again, he'd rather not be overly drowsy, in his situation. "Thanks, but no thanks, Doc."

Ga'we's forehead creased in a gentle frown, undoubtedly caused by the curious turn of phrase. "Well then, if you don't need anything I'll go," he said.

Travis bit his lower lip, uncertain. Should he confide in this man? If he was going to he'd better do it fast, though, for the physician was already half way through the door.

"Doctor..."

"Yes?"

"Was my leg injured? I wasn't aware of it."

Ga'we looked back silently for a moment; then retraced his steps and closed the door. "I don't know of any leg injury. Would you show me?"

Travis lifted his robe and Ga'we bent his head to one side, frowning.

"Come and sit on the bed. I want to see what's under that pad."

"I was going to do just that, before you came," Travis admitted. "But I guess it's better if a doctor does it." He did as told and tried not to wince as Ga'we started to peel the pad off.

The frown creasing the physician's brow deepened as he uncovered a raw square of flesh.

"What's the hell is that?" Travis wondered, losing his fight against that wince. It almost looked as if he had scraped his leg, abrading his skin.

Ga'we's mouth tightened, setting his face in an outraged expression. "I believe I know what this is, and-"

"Doctor? What are you doing?" another voice thundered, startling them both like children caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

"I… thought you had gone home," Ga'we stuttered, to the man who had entered.

Travis sensed he really wished he had.

Dvo'we approached with measured steps, auxiliary hands in his green coat's pockets, main arms crossed over his chest. "As you can see I haven't. I will ask you again: what are you doing?"

Ga'we's jaw clenched for a moment. "Checking this wound," he replied slowly.

"You may go. I'll take over," Dvo'we said, in the same tone.

Travis looked from one to the other. He got the distinct feeling that there was another level of conversation going on between the two, to which he had no access.

"Thank you, but I promised Doctor Phlox that I would look after his patient personally."

"A very unwise promise."

Ga'we took a couple of determined steps towards his colleague. "Perhaps," he said firmly. "But I will not allow anyone to use a man as a lab rat, Doctor."

That last word had been spat out with a certain dose of contempt.

"What?" Travis blurted out. "Lab rat?" His heart had started racing, and he was suddenly very alert.

Dvo'we spared him a supercilious look, before returning his attention on Ga'we. "You have – what – two children, and a third one on the way, haven't you? A lovely family..."

It would have been a puzzling nonsequitur had it not been for the intimidating overtones of his apparently sweet voice. Travis heard Ga'we draw in a quick breath. The young doctor looked stunned. If the man hadn't been already so ghost-white, he was sure he would have noticed a change in colour.

"You wouldn't dare," he breathed out.

"Dare what, Doctor?" A nasty smile crept over Dvo'we's face. "Mister Mayweather," he continued, eyes still on his colleague, "you are being transferred to a prison cell."

For a brief moment Travis wondered if he had heard correctly. His mind was buzzing with worrisome questions. "You've got to be kidding," he heard himself say. "It's the middle of the night."

"It is standard procedure. The police prefer to do such things in hours when the hospital is quieter and less crowded."

Travis turned to Ga'we, hoping against all hope that he could get some help from him. The young man's eyes were haunted. He had grabbed the end rail of the bed so tightly that Travis could count every tendon in his hand. He swallowed hard. "Mister Mayweather is still weak. It is my professional opinion that we should keep him under observation for a while longer," he forced out.

"Unfortunately," Dvo'we commented coldly, "_my_ professional opinion is what counts. I have already signed the release order. Go on, Doctor. Go home to your wife and children. I will see to Mister Mayweather's transfer myself."

Ga'we opened his mouth to speak; then closed it. He stared for a moment longer into the rock-hard eyes, before lowering his own to the ground. He gave a nod that spoke of defeat; then, carefully avoiding eye-contact with Travis, started towards the door.

Out went the only person Travis thought of as a friend, here on the planet. He felt the world crush him once more. Prison and being accused of murder was already bad. But the lab rat part...

* * *

"Please Captain," Malcolm said deep in his chest. He wasn't used to pleading, was too proud a man for that sort of thing; but the words had risen impulsively to his lips from the knot of worry that had been sitting permanently on his heart for way too many hours now.

Archer held his gaze with eyes that spoke volumes. Malcolm could see he was running all options in his mind. Against all expectations, he'd grown fond of the man's style of command. He had thought him arrogantly reckless at first, but had come to learn that his actions were dictated by genuine enthusiasm for the mission, and that he was selfless and compassionate, a leader who put the well-being of his crew before any personal gain or safety, and that had made all the difference. Indeed, that was what he was appealing to now.

They had spoken to Travis's appointed advocate and found out that the man had done precious little to build a defence line, or even find out the truth. The girl Travis had been dancing with – he had said – swore the man had left, all of a sudden, and gone out of the bar. He was going to speak to his client again, to see if he had regained any memories of that fateful night.

"What have you found out about their judicial system, T'Pol?" Archer finally enquired.

"The evidence against Mister Mayweather puts him in a difficult position, Captain." T'Pol fixed her big brown gaze on Archer's. "There are three eye witnesses, and Doctor Phlox has confirmed that the substance on the Ensign's hands was indeed alien blood. With such evidence against him, according to this planet's legal system he would be convicted without even appearing in court."

"That's outrageous," Archer spat out. "And they call themselves civilised?"

Beside Malcolm, Trip put his hands on his hips. "He was unarmed, for Pete's sake," he exclaimed. "How could he have killed anyone?"

"That's another point against him," T'Pol said. "Apparently, the person's throat was slit open with a knife stolen at the locale near which the incident occurred."

Archer's green eyes became two sharp needles. "What does Travis risk as punishment, if declared guilty?"

"Capt'n-"

"Trip," Archer hushed, with an impatient wave of the hand.

T'Pol's eyebrows lifted. "Fortunately, there is no death penalty on Ajfwqa. Assuming his advocate can prove he wasn't in control of himself due to a side effect of his drinking, he could be given up to twenty years in prison. Otherwise, it would be a life sentence."

"Dammit," Archer cursed under his breath.

"Captain, there are rules to space exploration; and they cannot be ignored," T'Pol went on from his position opposite Malcolm and Trip, latching her arms behind her back. "Setting foot on another planet implies we have to be aware of that planet's laws, and abide by them."

Predictably, that comment unleashed Trip's anger again.

"Just whose side are you on?" he burst out in outrage.

"I am not suggesting that Ensign Mayweather is guilty of murder, Commander," T'Pol calmly countered. "He probably acted on self-defence. Nevertheless-"

"_Probably_? I can't believe this!"

Malcolm felt the wave of rage radiating from his friend almost physically. He hadn't seen Trip like this very often, but every time it struck him what a different person from the laid-back man they were used to he could become when the situation called for it: intense and focused, a bundle of potentially dangerous energy.

"Trip," Archer warned again, concern making him abrupt. "We're here to find a solution to this mess, not jump at each other's throats. T'Pol is just pointing out facts, however unpleasant."

The ready-room, already too crowded with four people in it, felt even smaller, as he – predictably – began to pace.

"Captain," Malcolm resumed, in the silence that had fallen, "All I'm asking is that you let me find that girl and speak to her. Maybe even those three eye witnesses. Or Doctor Ga'we – Phlox says the man suspects something he wouldn't tell." He grimaced. "Sir, I don't believe for one moment that Travis was drunk. Trip and I had the same ale, and it was bland enough to put in a baby's bottle, for heaven's sake." His voice had risen of its own will, and he straightened his shoulders under Archer's sudden scrutiny, with a muttered, "Sorry, Captain."

"The Ajfwqa'we Government has explicitly proscribed us from visiting without a specific invitation," T'Pol pointed out, getting herself another rather unfriendly look from Trip.

"They don't need to know," Malcolm said with quiet resolve. He took a step towards their C.O., tiredness and worry breaking his natural formality. "Please, Captain. We all know Travis was set up. Let me go down there to try and prove it. It's the only way to get him acquitted."

T'Pol's eyebrows lifted again as she warned, with the poise only she could maintain in every circumstance, "Captain, transporting down would be a serious breach of diplomatic protocol."

Archer was silent for a long moment.

"I say the Ajfwqa'wes themselves have breached _diplomatic protocol_ seriously enough," he eventually snarled. "They're trying to frame my officer, for whatever dark purpose, dammit."

Malcolm felt hope rise. He had never really doubted Archer would leave Travis in the hands of these people; but he had feared the Captain wouldn't want to take action quite yet. The sooner they took things into their own hands – in his humble opinion – the better.

But T'Pol wouldn't let go of the bone.

"Have you considered what would happen if Lieutenant Reed should be found planetside?" she asked.

Archer passed a hand over his face, lingering over his mouth, as his eyes tracked to Malcolm.

"It won't happen, Captain," Malcolm said firmly.

"I know you are good at what you do, Malcolm," Archer said, doubt re-entering his voice, "but you have no training as a covert agent."

Malcolm pursed his lips against a pang of conscience. He should make Archer privy to his past in Section 31. Maybe one day. Now was not the time.

"Sir, if I weren't confident that I can carry out this job I wouldn't be proposing it." He steeled his gaze, and Archer met it squarely.

So many years of being disciplined by his father into shutting up had made of him a man of few words; but Malcolm knew the art of silent communication.

There was a suspenseful pause; then the Captain nodded once.

"Do it," he said quietly.

TBC

Let's see... what else can I offer to entice a few more people to comment? Chocolate pudding? Coffee? Tea? :-)


	7. Chapter 7

§ 7 §

This wasn't happening. It must be all in his mind, surely. He must be asleep, having a nightmare. He _was_ asleep, wasn't he? These weren't really straps binding him to a bed; this wasn't a lab; that wasn't Doctor Dvo'we; and, especially, that pointy thing in his hand wasn't a syringe.

Travis felt a surge of panic grip him, and started pulling wildly against his restraints. He heard himself curse loudly, a steady stream of words, and he was hoarse before a part of him, his better self, felt ashamed at such lack of control. He was a Starfleet Officer, he must remember that, concentrate on that. With deep breaths, he pulled himself together, though the sight of Dvo'we who went about his business as if he didn't exist, made him cold to the core. This was a man with nerves of steel, and he – Travis Mayweather – was in serious trouble.

Prison! A prison cell right now felt like a pretty agreeable prospect...

"What do you want from me?" he roared; again. His heart was beating furiously; he could feel it pumping hard, in his ears, at the base of his neck. "What the hell do you want?"

There was no answer, of course. There never was. Ignoring him was the damn man's sport, and a powerful intimidating weapon.

Sweat trickled down the side of Travis's face, making it itch. He twisted his neck, in a vain effort to wipe it off his shoulder. When he turned again, Dvo'we was there, looming over him. His uncommunicative eyes bore into him; then, slowly, he lowered the syringe to the base of his neck.

Travis felt the needle penetrate. He screamed.

* * *

"Lieutenant, one more thing," Archer called, stopping Malcolm who, with a nod, was already moving to exit the ready-room.

Leaning back against the edge of his desk, he watched his Officer retrace a step to return to Trip's side. He could have just as well taken a further step and joined T'Pol, who was closer to the door, but hadn't. Archer almost smiled; Trip and Malcolm were as similar as water and fire, yet their friendship was getting more solid by the day.

His thoughts turned a lot grimmer as he gave his Lieutenant the once-over. He did it quickly, trying to be unobtrusive, but he held few hopes Malcolm wouldn't notice: the man wore antennae that were quite sensitive in that respect. He also wore as tired a face as Archer had ever seen on him at the start of a day. It was obvious his bed hadn't seen much of him last night.

Doubt assailed him again. What had got into him, giving that order? Suppose T'Pol was right and Malcolm got caught... He cursed himself and schooled his features. A Captain must not let doubts show in front of his men.

"You look like hell," he said directly. "I'd like you to get some rest before you beam down, Lieutenant." He let his eyes drive home the message that this wasn't really a request – more like an order. Unexpectedly, he didn't get the slightest argument.

"Aye, Sir," Malcolm replied, a bit self-consciously. His gaze flicked to the clock on Archer's desk. "It's mid-afternoon planet-side at the moment; I should wait until well after sunset before transporting down, which means I do have some time on my hands."

Ah. The man wasn't off the hook yet, though.

"Rest as in sleep, Malcolm. A few hours of solid sleep. Get Phlox to give you something, if you can't manage it on your own."

That – he saw – went down less smoothly. Malcolm's mouth twitched downwards; but eventually he gave a sharp nod.

Archer shifted his attention to Trip. "Can you do anything to cover up the transport?"

"Yeah, I'll find a way, don't worry."

"Any questions?"

Trip shook his head; T'Pol raised one eyebrow.

"Sir," Malcolm said, "once I'm down there we should keep comm. silence. I will initiate contact, if necessary; or when I'm ready to return to the ship."

Archer pursed his lips. "Fair enough. But if we don't hear from you in eight hours, we'll transport you back from wherever you are." He looked from one officer to the next one last time. "Dismissed."

And may God help them.

* * *

Ga'we pushed open the gate that gave access to the small lawn in the back of his house and closed it behind him delicately. He liked coming home from the back, rather than the front door, because Echia was usually in the kitchen preparing their meal at this hour, and he loved to catch a glimpse of her through the window, hair pulled up in a neat bun, going about her business with the artlessness of someone who didn't know she was being observed.

Tonight, that thought sent a shiver down his spine. Even though he should hurry inside, he leaned back against the gate, and the full realisation of just how vulnerable she was hit him like a ton of bricks. Dvo'we's not so veiled threat had been going though his mind ever since it had been uttered the night before. When he'd returned home, yesterday, Echia and the twins had already been asleep; and in the morning he had got up early and left her a message, because he didn't want to face her. He could never hide anything from his wife; she'd know right away when something was on his mind. Sooner or later face her he had to, though, and now that time had come.

Echia turned to say something to the children; then her form disappeared from the lit frame of the window. Ga'we closed his eyes, dizzy at the thought that she might be taken away from him like that, in an instant, and with her the child she carried in her womb. He couldn't allow that, and for what? For an alien? A stranger who had dropped by them uninvited?

Mayweather's dark face suddenly appeared against his mind's backdrop, and he flashed his eyes open. Good heaven, what would become of him now? How far would Dvo'we push himself in his quest for power and success?

But the question that haunted him most was: what about his own professional integrity? How would he ever be able to call himself a doctor, how could he go on practising, after forfeiting a life?

* * *

Malcolm kept on unhurriedly, hands deep in his trouser pockets. He knew someone was following him. He hadn't seen the person, hadn't glanced in the shops' windows to try and catch the reflected image of his pursuer as they did in spy movies; but he didn't need to. Yes, he was definitely being tagged. His sixth sense never failed.

That was the good news. He stopped dead in his tracks. The bad news was that he had taken the wrong turn and entered a dead end. Dammit!

He made a quick survey of the alley: back-doors, overflowing garbage bins… not one bloody place to hide. Steps, behind him. Stopping. Brilliant. He was thoroughly and utterly -

Heart in his throat, Malcolm flashed his eyes open. Darkness surrounded him and his alarm-clock was hammering the same old note. With a groan he twisted and slapped a hand – old style – to stop it; then collapsed back on his pillow.

He hadn't dreamt of his past in a long while. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly, wishing his anxiety out of him as well. That time – the time of the dream – he had got out of it only because the person following him had been no foe. The carelessness with which he had almost signed his demise had left a deep mark on him; and the memory once in a while resurfaced, as a bad dream, if not as a warning in situations of danger. Like the one he was about to embark on. With the mission impending, his subconscious had clearly gone to poke at that carefully repressed memory that belonged to a phase of his life he liked to consider closed.

Another sigh inflated his ribcage. He didn't like the fact that there was a part of him Archer ignored; but Harris had sworn him to secrecy, and up to now he had just as carefully avoided the issue of this divided loyalty. The thing was his conscience gave him hell if he thought of it and hell if he ignored it. In truth, it was a problem without solution.

Malcolm ordered the lights on and threw his legs off the bed, sitting up. Leaning with his elbows on his knees, he tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. He had known it wouldn't be a good idea to get Phlox's magic potion when he could only catch four hours of 'shuteye'. He had recommended that the dose be the lowest, but it was never like waking up from a 'normal' sleep; he felt more sluggish. Besides, four hours were hardly enough to recoup all that he had lost, and had only served to make him ache for more. Ah – he couldn't blame Archer for ordering him, actually. He would've done the same, in his shoes. Good thing he had allowed himself a good hour before his departure.

Pushing to his feet, he stretched. There were a few things to do. A shower; food – never go on a mission on an empty stomach; seeing Müller about his duties in his absence; talking to-

The bell interrupted his mental list.

He passed a hand through his unkempt hair; then shuffled to the door and palmed it open. Trip's face appeared.

"Have you brought me breakfast?" Malcolm quipped.

"No, but I've brought you something else that you might like."

Without asking, the Engineer pushed past him. Malcolm closed the door and turned, tilting his head in puzzlement at the bundle in his friend's hands.

"What's that?"

"Your Superhero costume."

Malcolm shifted his eyes briefly away, crossing his arms over his chest. "Come again?"

Eyes bright, Trip unfurled a jacket, holding it up for Malcolm to see. It had an additional pair of sleeves attached below the normal ones, with makeshift hands sticking out.

"I've been busy, while you slept."

Malcolm frowned, shaking his head. "Come on, Trip, you can see they're fake from a mile away."

"Not if you put them in your pockets."

Hm. He hadn't thought of that. "It might work," Malcolm agreed after a moment of consideration. "Though I'm not planning to parade in front of any of those aliens. I'll keep to the shade."

"Phlox will make you up to look pale." Trip's mouth pulled in a lopsided smirk and he jerked his head sideways. "I mean paler."

"Thanks," Malcolm groaned. But Trip didn't smile; he looked preoccupied.

"That girl Travis danced with…" he said, biting his lip. "I've racked my brain, but I can't remember her name."

"Not a problem. I remember her well, if anything for her stunning eyes."

"Yeah, they were definitely easier to remember than her name," Trip said, letting himself go to a tense chuckle. He sobered up quickly. "Take care of yourself down there," he said quietly.

Harris must have told him the same thing a dozen times; but his only concern was the possible loss of a man. Trip was worried about losing a friend, and it felt very different. It felt nice.

"I'll be all right, don't worry," Malcolm said, with a tentative smile. He wanted to add 'I've done this before', but the words died on his lips, and he felt like a traitor.

TBC

Thank you to my reviewers! Loads of cookies.


	8. Chapter 8

We're getting into a bit of action here. And I haven't been too kind to Travis. But after all the assignment was to break him...

Ready? Do you still remember who is who?

Thar Ga'we, younger doctor (in this chapter we meet his wife Echia); Dvo'we, older doctor. In this chapter we also meet Shur Bad'we, Ga'we's best friend.

§ 8 §

"You're so quiet. What is it, Thar'lol?"

Ga'we had always hated the name Thar; it meant 'The Prudent One', and he couldn't shake the idea that prudence was a synonym of lack of courage. After yesterday he hated the sound of it even more, even though Echia always managed to give it a melodious ring by adding that suffix to it, which gave it an affectionate connotation.

He caught his wife's eyes and looked deep into them. "Something is troubling me," he admitted. "My heart and my conscience are at war."

Echia stopped picking up the building bricks the twins had left scattered on the living-room carpet and straightened to give him her full attention. She only had a couple more weeks to go in her pregnancy but no one would know, and seemed to have inexhaustible reserves of energy. Ga'we watched her clear gaze veil under the frown that had appeared on her brow, and almost regretted his decision to tell her everything. But no, it was the right thing to do.

"You know the research the Government has urged us to carry out, to find a solution to our genetic problem?"

Echia silently nodded.

"I fear one of the aliens who recently visited our planet has been framed with murder only so that he can be kept here and studied for that research."

"And you have not done anything about it?" Echia simply asked.

Though her tone hadn't been judgemental, she was watching him carefully, studying his every move. Ga'we winced. "At first it was only a suspicion, so I didn't want to say anything, but then..." He reached for Echia's hands and led her to sit down on the sofa beside him. "Dvo'we has let me understand that my family might come to harm if I don't mind my own business," he said, seeking understanding on her seemingly imperturbable face. Her features were so delicate, and yet she had strength of character. He hoped their son would take that from her, for right now he felt inadequate to be a father.

There was a long moment of silence.

"What will be done to that man?" Echia finally enquired, in a whisper, but without faltering.

Ga'we closed his eyes. "Nothing good." He finally felt a wave of outrage rise in him and welcomed it, even though much of it was self-directed. "It's not right, that alien has already suffered enough and he's done nothing wrong," he spat out.

Echia was silent one moment longer. "Then you must help prove his innocence," she said gravely.

"And risk losing what I have most precious?" The idea sent a stabbing pain through Ga'we's heart. "I could never forgive myself if you or the children came to any harm."

"If that happened, you would have to forgive someone else for it, Thar'lol. If that alien comes to some harm: it is then that you would have to forgive yourself."

There was terrible wisdom in the words, but it didn't make it any easier. Ga'we still wavered. "I don't know," he said. His outrage was already spent, leaving him dispirited. "There is too much at stake."

Echia held his troubled gaze for a long time. "I know you'll find a way to help that man, Thar'lol," she finally said, and her calm self-assurance, like always, gave him the strength he lacked.

* * *

Malcolm flattened himself against the wall, in one of the side alleys of the tavern building, and inched towards the nearest window, from which a warm, yellow light spilled out. Trip had been up to his promise of a safe transport, depositing him on the strand in front of his old friend His Royal Highness Fhniet'we I, to whom he'd given a mocking military salute. A few meters off, actually, and Trip would have plunged him in pretty stormy waters; but that was a thought Malcolm didn't want to dwell upon, and he pushed it quickly out of his mind.

It was rather late, but the tavern was still alive with customers. Another step… Malcolm glanced inside, making a quick visual survey of the place. Crowded tables, busy barman and waiters...

Someone suddenly appeared a bit too close for comfort, and he drew back. The dance floor; he must check the dance floor. He waited a few minutes; then took another peek. No, that girl didn't seem to be dancing but... Wasn't that she, sitting on a stool at the counter, drinking and chatting with a friend? Yes, he recognised the way she gestured with her hands, in that sophisticated way he had observed not without a touch of curiosity; not to mention the bracelets on her right wrist, which tinkled with her every movement. Yes, that was definitely her.

Satisfied, Malcolm withdrew once again. He looked down at himself, fake pair of hands stuck in his trouser pockets, wondering if he should dare go inside. No way. Maybe he could pass for an – albeit short – Ajfwqa'we from afar, but in a bar, especially a bar where he had recently been seen? Not in a lifetime. He'd have to wait for the girl to come out.

Sighing, Malcolm slid to a sitting position, back against the wall. How many times had he done this, spying, tracking, waiting? He had spent hours in uncomfortable conditions, rain, heat, cold, knowing he had to keep alert and ready for action even as his body inexorably wanted to defy him and go on standby. Finally he had asked himself if that was the life he really wanted for himself: a life, moreover, of deceit and stealth. The answer had risen through him with the strengh of his moral fibre. He knew his stuff, but there was more than knowing your stuff to a good covert agent: there was being pretty much unprincipled, and if in an impetus of youthful rebellion he had been led astray, the teachings he had received were too rooted in him to be buried and forgotten.

No more. Malcolm turned his thoughts forcefully away, to his new life, to Enterprise and her crew. He was one lucky bastard to have reached the position he had, on board Earth's flagship. All right, on occasion his experience in Section 31 came in handy, like today, but it was a relief those days were over.

It was a long time before the girl came out. Malcolm tried to rub some feeling into his benumbed limbs as he watched, unseen, the girl linger a brief moment at the tavern's door and say a quick good-bye to her friend. Then she turned and went off in the other direction. After a moment Malcolm started following her, keeping at a safe distance. In the darkness no one would be able to tell he was alien; but the fact that there weren't many people around was still a comforting thought. The Ajfwqa'wes were apparently not fond of the open air, and it was benefitting him again tonight.

The girl walked at a very brisk pace for a good ten minutes, away from the coast, through a few narrow roads of what, from the Shuttlepod, had looked like the older part of town, the one near the sea; then along a wider street lined with trees. Any faster and they'd break in a jog, Malcolm mused. Finally she stopped in front of a door. From behind a tree, Malcolm watched her reach in a pouch she wore around her waist. She got out a device and pressed it against a plaque on the wall. With a soft release noise, the door opened. Before she could realise what was happening, he had pushed her inside and closed the door behind them.

* * *

Travis could see everything – everything that fell within his line of sight and peripheral vision that was, because his body was not responding: he was paralysed and anaesthetised, and frozen with dread. Dvo'we had been going around him as if he weren't a sentient being with a mind and feelings but a piece of wood, or a creature for his experiments.

The Doctor had drawn blood – how much he didn't know, though it must be a fair amount because his head was spinning – and had passed by a few times with a scalpel in his hand. If and where he had used it on him he also didn't know, but neither did he want to.

And then Dvowe reappeared, right above him. His gloved hands were bloodied. Travis wished he could close his eyes not to see this horror, but even that was denied him; as was escape in unconsciousness.

* * *

"It happened two days ago not far from the "Light of the Harbour", you _must_ know," Ga'we insisted. "Look Shur, I'm sorry, I know it's late at night, but this is important..."

Shur Bad'we, director of the local newspaper, stood barefoot and in pyjamas, rubbing his sleepy face. Ga'we felt a pang of conscience for waking him up in the middle of the night, but that same conscience wouldn't leave him alone. Every hour counted; and after all, what were friends for? The two of them were as close as brothers, had been since their first day in school together. So he had gone to Shur's home.

"Thar, I know it looks like I left my brain back on the pillow," Shur slurred, "but believe me: the only suspicious death in town, two days ago, was that of a poor bloke who probably killed himself, up in the poor northern district. Look, I would've known about a murder in the harbour: that's front-page news, and I get a daily crime report from the police." He passed a hand through his already dishevelled hair, leaving it an even bigger mess. "Hell, you know how I take this city's moral degradation at heart." Frowning, he enquired, "Why are you asking? Why is it so important?"

Ga'we looked at his friend without seeing him. If no murder had been committed, then Mayweather could easily be proven innocent... Could it be so easy? He must make absolutely sure; must check with all the morgues in town.

* * *

"I will not leave until you have given me what I've come for," Malcolm told the frightened girl. In a flash he realised what the words would be taken for – at least on Earth.

After making sure they were alone, Malcolm had pushed her none too gently further inside the house and ordered her to switch on some light; and now, as she stood wide-gazed with terror in what looked like a bedroom – if that pile of rugs on the floor was indeed a bed – he could not fail to notice, once again, the incredible colour of her eyes, of an intense blue with specks of violet. He watched them roam him up and down, and slowly show the realisation that under layers of white make-up hid one of the aliens with whom she had drunk two nights before.

Shrinking away from him, the girl found a wall behind her and hugged herself tight with both sets of arms. "Go away," she finally managed, close to panic. "I don't know what you are talking about. I can give you nothing."

Malcolm let his own eyes go icy-cold. He wouldn't hurt her, didn't plan to lift a finger against her, but it didn't mean she had to know that. He had witnessed many a harsh interrogation during that past he wasn't proud of, and carried out some of his own, though he had always set a limit for himself. He knew how to make people talk, even without resorting to physical harm. He'd hate himself for it afterwards, as he always had; but was prepared once again to face his conscience if it served to save a man, a friend, he had failed to protect in the first place.

"You know perfectly well what I mean," he said in his darkest voice, closing the gap between them threateningly. "You helped frame my crewmate for murder, and I want to know everything about it. What you did and why."

"Murder? I didn't do anything!"

Her hands were grabbing at her top, wringing the stretchy material and pulling it tight around her slender neck and thin waist. Her voice was wavering, betraying guilt. Malcolm went another step closer. She turned her face away, but he reached for her chin and firmly, if gently, turned her head back to face him.

"Tell me what happened that night," he said, letting a dangerous smile curve his lips.

"We danced. At some point he excused himself and left." She suddenly screamed back, "That's all I know!"

It was the growl of a cornered animal, which was exactly how Malcolm wanted her to feel. He leaned with both hands flat on the wall, each on one side of her, encroaching even more of her space, inches from her face. "That's what you want everyone to believe. Now tell me what really happened, or I'll be forced to get it out of you in ways you wouldn't like." He bore into those mesmerising, frightened eyes, feeling a bastard through and through but knowing he was good enough that his own features wouldn't let it show.

Suddenly, he felt a hard shove on his stomach. The girl had unwound her shorter arms and pushed against him; then she vented herself at him wildly. Malcolm saw her nails coming for his eyes; he turned, but not before she'd scratched him from cheekbone to chin. A moment later he had grabbed her wrists and crossed her longer arms in front of her, immobilising her second pair of limbs and pinning her against the wall. He could feel blood trickling down his cheek and was mad at himself for forgetting her peculiar anatomy. He used that anger against his writhing prey.

"You'd better talk _now_," he growled. "My patience has run thin."

The reaction he got was not what he had expected. The girl stopped fighting and her beautiful eyes filled with tears. At first silently; then with sobs that shook her thin frame, she started to weep, sagging against the wall. "I can't," she said brokenly. "If I do..." She couldn't go on.

This was something he had not wanted to consider; it would be easier to think of her as an enemy than as someone who'd been used, maybe against her will. But he couldn't stop now, no matter what.

"Right now you'd better worry about what's going to happen to you if you don't," he threatened.

"Let me go," she wailed.

"What was your part?" Malcolm insisted.

"I..." The girl's face crumpled. "I spiked his drink, and took him to the dance floor. Someone else got him then. I don't know what they did to him, I swear..."

"What did you get in return?" Malcolm spat out. His heart was hammering. "What?" he demanded, with a jerk at her wrists.

"Money," was the predictable reply.

TBC

Are you still witn me? :-)


	9. Chapter 9

§ 9 §

"Come," Archer called.

Phlox appeared at the door of the ready room. Archer could tell just by glancing at his face that he was troubled. The Denobulan was such an upbeat individual that any clouds passing over his features were hard to miss.

"Doctor?"

For once the man went straight to the point.

"I am worried, Captain," Phlox said. "Doctor Ga'we promised to look after Ensign Mayweather but I can't seem to get in touch with him. He's the only person I trust, down there."

Archer slowly rose from his chair. "Have you had Hoshi contact the hospital?"

"Yes, but the reply is always the same: 'Doctor Ga'we is unavailable at the moment'."

Archer pursed his lips. "They're going too far," he commented, angrily reaching for the comm. link. "Hoshi, get me Governor Ety'we."

"Aye, Sir."

Moments later he had the man on screen. Without preambles, he said, "Governor, I wish to visit my crewman."

"You already have, not so long ago, Captain," Ety'we smoothly replied.

Archer studied his insincere half-smile. "Since then he has been taken to prison and our doctor has been sent away. I want to make sure Ensign Mayweather is being treated properly."

Ety'we's face turned, more candidly, sour. "As a matter of fact I was about to call you," he said, abandoning all pretence of amiability. "Your man's case doesn't look hopeful. The judge has set the final term to present new evidence for tomorrow at noon. Barring any acquitting proof, your crewman will be convicted for murder."

"This is ridiculous," Archer burst out. "It's too little time! And what has Ensign Mayweather's lawyer done to clear him? A big fat nothing!"

"On the contrary. He has interviewed all the people involved and spoken to his client. Unfortunately your man can't remember anything."

"My Doctor found a substance in Mayweather's blood. Have you told your judge? He was probably drugged."

"Doctor Dvo'we is of the opinion that he drank too much and reacted to that."

"I wish to speak to Doctor Ga'we," Phlox butted in, anticipating Archer's angry reply.

There was a moment of surprised silence as the Governor studied the new face on his screen. "It is Doctor Dvo'we who is looking after your man's well-being. You can send him a message at the hospital, and he will be in touch when possible. Good-bye, Captain."

The Starfleet logo replaced Governor Ety'we's face, and Archer clenched his fists in frustration. The way he felt now he'd rush to the tactical console, relieve the man there, and fire both phase cannons on Ety'we's residence. He glanced at the time. Malcolm had been on the planet for close to five hours, without so much as an 'I've arrived safely'. He wondered if he had found out anything useful, but the man had insisted on comm. silence. He should give him a bit more time. In the meantime, though... He pressed the link again.

"Hoshi, I really need you to find Travis's biosigns."

"Captain, I've been trying, but we are talking about over a million people," Hoshi's voice came back, with a touch of exasperation. A second later she added ruefully, "I'm sorry, Sir, the Ajfwqa'wes' may look unusual but their biosigns aren't all that different from ours; and I'm not even sure that Travis's biosigns aren't still shielded."

Archer could hear the exhaustion in her voice and wished he could order her to get some sleep, but Hoshi was too valuable under the circumstances. "I know that, Ensign," he said quietly. "Malcolm's?"

"His keep appearing and disappearing, Sir; but for the moment I have him under control, so to speak."

There was a note of worry in her voice now. "Keep at it. I know you're doing your best."

"But Captain, I thought we had kept track of Mayweather's biosigns," Phlox said in surprise as soon as he had cut the link, chin jerking down. "I thought we knew where he is."

"Damn but we don't," Archer said darkly. "All buildings seem to be shielded, and the means of transport they used to carry him away from hospital probably was, too." He met Phlox's eyes uncomfortably and admitted, "We have no idea where he is. I'm having Hoshi look for him on the off chance he's in some prison where they allow him some time in the open air."

Archer passed a hand over his face. He too was tired. He felt impotent. He should have followed Malcolm's advice and transported Travis out when they had visited, and got the hell out of the system. T'Pol reasons might be logical, but he heeded the heart; and when the life of one of his crew was in danger that's where he drew the line: he didn't care about rules and regulations, or diplomacy, then. Let Starfleet take his Captaincy, if they didn't like his approach. He wondered for a moment how he had possibly come this close to having Malcolm hanged, that time – _hanged_, for heaven's sake! – to safeguard those people from cultural contamination. Only the fact that he had been right beside him on the scaffold made the memory acceptable.

"You would do well to take a few hours of rest, Captain," Phlox said, piercing into his thoughts.

Archer refocused on his CMO. "I will. After this is over," he said firmly.

* * *

Malcolm dabbed a sleeve on his bleeding cheek; the cuts must be deep for they hurt like hell. Ajfwqa'wes, he had found out, had pretty hard nails; or at least Draga – he had finally relented a bit and asked her name – had. But they were only scratches, after all. He forced his thoughts on his possible next move. All he had discovered was that Travis had indeed been drugged; and even then, he could prove it only by exposing the girl, which meant condemning _her_ to some untoward punishment; maybe even death.

"Who's behind all this?" he asked. "What do they want my friend for?"

The intense blue eyes, which tears had made even more beautiful, turned away. "I don't know, you've got to believe me," Draga begged.

"Who contacted you? Who paid you?" He was firing questions like bullets and, like bullets, they seemed to hurt her almost physically.

The girl grimaced. "A man I'd never seen before. I didn't ask questions. I needed the money…" She started wriggling again, struggling against the locking grip he still held on her. "I'll never admit to what I told you before a judge, or anyone else," she growled with sudden force.

It was the force of despair, and Malcolm knew it was a powerful thing. He let her go, and she cowered away from him, trembling, rubbing her wrists. He felt the predictable stab of compunction at the sight; but hardened his features to hide it, reminding himself that she had contributed to Travis's predicament.

What should he do with her? He glanced at his watch. He had two more hours before day-break; three more before Archer transported him out, if he didn't contact the ship.

* * *

"Thar, this is no joke. It sounds like the government might be involved. If that is true, we must be very careful. And I wouldn't take Dvo'we's threats lightly, if I were you."

The cautious words shattered Ga'we's already fragile courage. Dropping on one of his friend's kitchen chairs, he leaned with his elbows on his knees and grabbed his head. "What am I going to do?" he breathed out.

Shur deposited two steaming cups of gragh on the table, but silence fell and neither of them made a move to pick his up.

"Forget about proving that alien's innocence," Shur said out loud after a moment. He rubbed his chin. "The legal system is a slow machine, and if corruption is playing a role here... If you care about that Human's life, you'd better get him out of Dvo'we's clutches as soon as possible. But..." He hesitated, worry drawing his features tight. "Are you sure you want to risk so much?" he asked darkly.

Ga'we looked numbly into his friend's eyes, doubts storming his mind. He should forget about that Human. Maybe Dvo'we would even find a cure for their problem. So why should he interfere? Why should he care about someone from another planet?

"Maybe you should go home to your wife and kids and forget about this story, Thar."

Shur had always been able to read him like a book. But generally his own thoughts weren't this shameful and cowardly. Ga'we stood up abruptly.

"It would haunt me for the rest of my days. A person has been beaten, wrongly accused of murder, and is being used as a lab rat. I can't stand by and watch." He took a deep breath. "Echia has relatives on the Southern continent. I'll take my family there." He tried not to think what that would mean: abandoning all that he had painstakingly built for himself: his house, his job, his friends. No more. He grabbed Shur's arm. "Doctor Phlox, the aliens' physician, has given me frequency codes to contact him. Would you let me call from here?"

* * *

There was a ring. It had been soft but unexpected, and in the silence of the night had startled them both.

Malcolm shot his 'prisoner' a dangerous look. "Are you expecting someone?"

The girl shook her head with force.

Reaching for his phase pistol, he grabbed her by one arm. "If you make a sound I won't hesitate to use it," he threatened; then gave her a jerk. "Come on."

He walked with her to the front of the house. He took a quick peek from the window there. A man was at the door, and he recognised the younger doctor he'd seen at the hospital. Bloody hell. Ga'we had gained Phlox's trust; but if he knew the girl… Could _he_ be the person who had paid her to frame Travis? Well, he was about to find out.

There was another ring, more insistent.

Malcolm took position out of direct sight and jerked his head in the door's direction. "Open it."

"I am sorry," the Doctor said, as soon as he was face to face with Draga. "Don't be frightened. I know it's late, but this is important."

"What do you want?" Draga asked in a trembling voice.

The physician looked nervously inside. "Are you alone?"

Draga obviously didn't know how to answer that question. She cast a half-glance behind her, and Malcolm had no choice but step forward.

"Come in, Doctor Ga'we. What an unexpected surprise." He grabbed the physician, pulled him inside, and pushed him against a wall, forcing his feet apart. "Hands up – _all_ of them," he ordered. Only when he was certain the man was unarmed, did he let go of him and allowed him to turn.

The Doctor took in the phase pistol; then shifted his eyes to Malcolm's face. "What does this mean?" he asked. "I'm no enemy."

"I'll decide that, if you don't mind." Malcolm waved the weapon, silently herding both of his hostages back into the bedroom. "So you know her," he said coldly, once they were in the lit room and he could see the Doctor's face well. He didn't want to miss any emotion that might flit across it.

Ga'we looked at Draga. "Know her? No, but..."

"You paid her to drug my crewmate, and then played Good Samaritan to win our trust," Malcolm accused. Ga'we made to take a step forward, but Malcolm raised his pistol, stopping him. "Be careful Doctor," he hissed. "I'm in no mood for any more tricks."

"Tricks? What tricks?" Ga'we replied, anger just below the surface. "I've never seen her before, I'm here for you!"

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. How was he to believe that? No one knew he was on the planet; let alone where to find him.

"Listen to me," Ga'we went on irritably, "Your crewmate is in danger and I only want to help. I called Phlox, and they told me you were on the planet. They tracked your biosign to this house, and gave me directions. Captain Archer wants us to find Mayweather and get him to safety. He said to tell you your previous arrangement is off: he'll wait for your call when both of you are ready to be beamed up." His eyes tracked to Malcolm's cheek and he concluded, "Now let me disinfect that, and let's stop bickering. We have more important things to do."

* * *

Travis was getting confused. His mind was drifting in and out, but he couldn't say he minded. His eyesight was getting veiled: so much the better. He hoped he'd never come out of this numbness, because sometimes ignorance was much preferable to knowledge, and this was definitely one of those cases.

He felt cold. He wondered if life was slipping away from him. He thought of his parents, and the idea he would never see them again sent a stab through his heart. At least he could still feel something inside, even if only sadness and fear. He wondered if there were tears in his eyes. He couldn't feel them, could feel nothing on the outside. He hoped there weren't any; hoped he'd show his murderer how a Starfleet Officer faced death.

Enterprise... He had no doubt the Captain would come for him; only, this time he'd come too late.

TBC

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	10. Chapter 10

Thank you to my readers and reviewers!

§ 10 §

The vehicle on which they were speeding through the streets was _fast_. It had the shape of an egg and a darkened windscreen that blended well into the car's black body. Whatever powered it was very silent; as to what it rode on – if it ran on wheels or hovered above the ground – Malcolm didn't know, but when the engine had been turned on it had risen about half a metre. He made a mental note to find out as soon as he got off it; which hopefully would be soon, because thanks to Ga'we's rather erratic driving his motion sickness was beginning to rear its ugly head.

Main hands on a steering wheel of sorts, the Doctor raced them through streets that were slowly coming alive, as the sky in the distance faded into the colours of dawn.

Malcolm hadn't spoken to Ga'we since the man had tended to his scratches. His mind was busy figuring things out, last but not least a plan of action. This time he would not fail. He would get Travis out and back on Enterprise whatever it took. The idea that he would finally be _doing _something, that he was allowed to rescue the man at last was giving him new strength; he felt better than he had in days; indeed, since that fateful night. Danger had its attraction and adrenaline was something of a drug to him. Trip would undoubtedly say he was nuts, and maybe the man was right; but this side of his profession was something Malcolm didn't dislike. To put himself to the test; to conquer fear and succeed was vital to his mental balance. It reinforced his often wavering self-esteem. Only, he preferred when 'the test' didn't involve risking the lives of people he cared for.

Turning his head just a fraction, Malcolm cast a surreptitious look at his travelling companion. Ga'we was taut and taciturn. Malcolm pursed his lips. He didn't like the fact that the Doctor was of the party; he didn't like having to look out for another person, on a rescue mission. It had been inevitable, but he proposed to get the man to remain in the vehicle once they arrived at their destination.

There were a few things he didn't quite understand – like why Travis had been taken in the first place, and why Ga'we hadn't confided in Phlox right away if, as it seemed, he was so worried about what his older colleague might be up to. But this was not the time to ask questions. Except maybe for one.

"Where are they keeping him?"

Malcolm held on to the dashboard as the egg-mobile rounded a narrow bend without so much as a hesitation. He had the time to go through a few choice mental curses before the answer came.

"Dvo'we has a private lab, outside town, where he carries out some… _research_." Ga'we shot him a quick look. "He showed it to me once, when he thought I was a different kind of person, more... power-driven; less conscientious. He soon realised I wasn't the kind of man who put career advancement before everything." Another quick glance. "I hope I'm right and that your friend is indeed there. If he isn't, I wouldn't know where to look for him."

Malcolm tightened his lips in frustration. They didn't even know for sure if they were going to the right place? Brilliant.

"But it _must_ be," he heard Ga'we mutter, almost to himself.

"Doesn't he have to report to the hospital, during the day?"

"He has a certain freedom," Ga'we replied. "He has connections in high circles."

Malcolm's stomach was roiling. Good thing the food he'd eaten before leaving was well digested by now. "Describe the place," he managed, swallowing saliva. "How many rooms, layout..."

"I was there only once..."

Ga'we raked a hand through his hair just as the vehicle tackled another curve. Malcolm was about to scream 'keep your hands on the wheel' when he realised that with four appendages you could actually spare one, now and then. Not a bad thing. For a moment he wished those hands stuck in his pockets were real. Imagine firing four phase pistols at once.

"It's in a small, isolated house in the country. I only saw the entrance, a corridor, and the lab at the end of it," Ga'we continued, bringing him back to the present. "Ah, and a staircase leading to an upper floor."

They had left the centre of town and had gone through some fairly rundown suburbs. Now the road was flanked by that thick vegetation Malcolm had spied from the sky, when he had piloted the shuttlepod to the hospital, it seemed like ages ago. The trees formed a pretty well uninterrupted canopy. It didn't look like countryside suited for a cottage...

"Further on, the trees get thinner," Ga'we said as if reading his thoughts. Unexpectedly, he pulled the vehicle to a stop at the side of the street.

"What are you doing?" Malcolm demanded impatiently.

Ga'we turned to him, his eyes dark with worry. "I'll do everything I can to save your friend," he said tautly, "but you must take me and my family with you on your ship."

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak, but Ga'we pushed the door on his side open and exited the egg-mobile. Cursing, Malcolm followed suit. "What are you talking about?" he asked, even before he was completely out. Ga'we didn't reply. "Doctor," Malcolm said in an urgent voice, "I don't have time to waste. Would you care to explain what you-"

"Shur, Echia, over here!" Ga'we called, ignoring him; and started crossing the road. Figures were coming out of the thick vegetation. Malcolm watched in awe as a man and a woman emerged; each held the hand of a small child.

* * *

"It is because of the Ensign's dark complexion."

Archer felt a chill travel down his spine. He bore into his CMO. "Would you care to explain?" he asked darkly.

"The Ajfwqa'wes have a problem, which I understand is getting pretty serious, Captain. They are losing their natural skin defences. You may have noticed how pale they are," Phlox went on, his tone very professional. "Their sun's radiation has increased dangerously over the past few centuries, and their physiology hasn't been able to adapt: they simply get sick and die before they reach an old age. Their death rate is on the rise, and life expectation is decreasing. When they saw Mister Mayweather, they thought he might provide the answer they so desperately seek."

It took Archer a moment to react. He turned to his Science Officer. "T'Pol, didn't you check the planet's atmosphere, before we went down to visit?"

"Indeed. As you may recall I reported their sun was unusually strong, but considering we were going to spend the day in talks, indoors, I suggested it would be no cause for concern."

So it had been. Archer scrunched his eyes closed. He had been so excited about a new first contact that he had hardly registered her words, then. Strong sun? They'd just put on some lotion.

"I did found it unusual that there seem to be no elderly people on the planet," T'Pol went on, "and that they spend almost no time outdoors." She frowned slightly. "It would be logical for them to carry out their activities at night and rest during the day."

Phlox shrugged. "According to Doctor Ga'we, scientists have found that the problem is compounded by the planet's peculiar composition, which absorbs the radiation and then gives it off amplified in an uninterrupted cycle. Even at night it isn't safe for them." In the oddly chirpy voice he used when he was enthused by something, Phlox went on, "They have succeeded in shielding their buildings to some extent, but they can't spend their entire lives indoors, for lack of sunlight brings on other physical problems." The tone – luckily for Archer's nerves – dropped again as he concluded, "They are running out of time to find a cure."

Archer grabbed his cup of coffee with more strength than it was necessary. "Why is it that nobody thinks of _asking_ for help?" he said through a clenched jaw. A sudden thought struck him. "Just how dangerous is this to _us_, Doctor? I have two men down there, one of whom is likely to spend quite a bit of time in the outdoors."

"A few hours' exposure isn't going to affect him. As I said, this is something that has been going on for centuries," Phlox dismissed.

"I would assume that is also the reason why the city extends more inland than along the coast," T'Pol wondered. Her eyebrows lifted as she expounded, "Radiation near the sea would be more intense."

Phlox sighed. "That's what they thought for a long time. Except now they know the problem is just about as bad everywhere; hence the new, fashionable seafront locales."

Archer felt a wave of hatred, an emotion he had always fought and rejected, but right now was powerless against. Meeting new worlds and new civilisations was proving a less exciting enterprise than he had expected. He was definitely going to have to re-think his friendly approach to new species.

"For all his kindness, Doctor Ga'we knew but wasn't going to tell us," he spat out.

"I wouldn't hold it against him, Captain," Phlox said, with a sympathetic smile. "He wanted to have some definite proof that Mister Mayweather had indeed been – how is that colourful Human expression? – ah, yes, _framed_. And don't forget that Doctor Dvo'we has threatened him. Apparently the man is acting on the Government's bidding and can be quite dangerous. I find it admirable that in the end Doctor Ga'we didn't silence his conscience."

Archer grimaced. "You're right, Doc, I'm sorry." He heaved a deep sigh. "Let's hope his help doesn't come too late."

* * *

"Tucker to Archer."

If he knew his Chief Engineer, Trip sounded troubled and frustrated. _Welcome to the club_ – Archer silently mused. He reached for the link button. "What is it, Commander?"

"Capt'n, I'm having a whole lot of trouble with the transporter."

Archer heard him blow out a breath and that didn't bode well.

"After we transported Malcolm, as is standard procedure, we ran a routine check: the thing's completely screwed up. I don't know; might be the planet's composition; there's a lot of interference."

_Any more bad news?_ "Malcolm?" Archer instinctively asked, imagination already running rampant. But no, what a fool – they'd been tracking his biosigns…

"He got there okay, I'm positive about it; I think the problem is transporting out rather than in."

Just great. What else could go wrong? No, better not ask that question…

"I think I'm gonna have to take it apart piece by piece," Trip went on. "It isn't exactly equipment we want to take a chance with."

"How long?" Archer enquired, irritation lacing his voice despite his best efforts to show calm. "I don't need to remind you we have two men on the planet that might need a quick lift any time, Trip."

"I know, Capt'n. But as I say, I wouldn't take any chances transporting them out if I'm not absolutely sure they'd arrive the way they left."

The words conjured up more disturbing images in Archer's mind, which he fought to dismiss.

"A few hours, Sir," Trip's tired voice continued. "I'd say at least two or three."

Archer bit his lip. "Do your best, Commander."

* * *

Malcolm went up to Ga'we determined to show him the iron side of Lieutenant Reed, the one that made his subordinates snap to attention; and never mind that he had to tilt his head up to look into the Doctor's eyes, for the man towered many centimetres over him: he was used to this sort of disadvantage.

"This is a bloody _rescue_ mission," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "It is likely to be dangerous, and I was already regretting the fact that _you_ would be there. And now you-" His eyes shifted for a second to the two identical girls, both looking up at him with frightened eyes, and he bit the inside of his cheek. "And now," he continued in a toned-down voice, "You want me to take along your wife and children?"

"I certainly wouldn't ask if I weren't forced to," Ga'we countered. He put a hand on Malcolm's shoulder and led him a few steps away. "Lieutenant, I've been threatened. I'm already placing my family at risk to help your comrade," he said in a low voice that trembled with what Malcolm thought was outrage. "The danger that this rescue mission may entail is the lesser of two evils, at this point." His face twisted in despair, and his emotionally-charged voice reached Malcolm's very soul. "Are you telling me you will leave us to our destiny? After what I'm doing for you?"

_Dammit_. Malcolm held the Doctor's intense gaze for a moment; then his eyes shifted back to the group waiting in suspended silence a few meters off. Ga'we's wife had each little girl by the hand now. All three were looking in his direction. The man the Doctor had addressed as Shur held a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Can you look into my chidren's eyes," Ga'we's emotional voice continued, "and refuse to help us?"

Malcolm heaved a deep sigh and raked a hand through his hair. "Even if I got you on Enterprise, what would you do then? Where would you go? You can't stay with us indefinitely."

"All we ask is that you take us to the Southern continent. My wife has relatives there. It's far enough that we'll be safe."

Malcolm knew he had no options. "All right," he conceded. "But you and your family will do exactly what I'll tell you. I'll go inside that house alone."

"Your friend might need medical attention," the Doctor said darkly.

"If he does, you'll give it to him once it's safe for you to do it." Malcolm jerked his head in the direction of the people waiting. "Get them. Better not waste any time."

Malcolm watched Ga'we jog to the group. He and the man grabbed each other's arms and stood like that for a long moment, seemingly unable to speak; then Shur pulled the Doctor into an embrace. They looked to be good friends, and Malcolm averted his gaze, feeling he was intruding. A wave of sadness hit him. He had always hated farewells; had always tried to avoid them. He could still feel the arms of his mother around him the day he had left for San Francisco, not wanting to let go. At least they had known it wasn't forever… Those two would probably never see each other again, and it struck him, right then, how honourable and courageous Ga'we was being. After all Travis was a perfect stranger to him. He might just as well have turned the other way. They owed him big time, as Trip would say.

Malcolm glanced back and saw that Shur was no longer there; Ga'we had crouched and was talking to his twins. Then he picked one up, and led his family towards him.

Malcolm silently cursed. Three more people to look out for.

TBC

Are you applying sun lotion? :-)

I'm looking forward to any comments.


	11. Chapter 11

Thank you, once again, to my readers and reviewers. Ready for a bit of action?

§ 11 §

The sun had dawned – though through the dark windshield it was but a whitish glare – when for the second time Ga'we pulled the vehicle to the side of the road. A narrow, unpaved street wound from there into the woods, leading to a house that Malcolm could barely make out among the trees, some three hundred metres off.

"Dvo'we is a dangerous man," the Doctor said. He turned off the engine and the vehicle gently lowered to the ground. "Don't underestimate him. If he's cornered he'll use any means at his disposal."

"I never underestimate my enemies," Malcolm replied, as he unnecessarily checked the charge of his phase pistol – he hadn't fired a single shot.

That was a lesson he had learnt well – not to underestimate an enemy: it had taken but one scrape with death. He glanced at the distant house; then back at Ga'we.

"Wait for me inside the vehicle; don't let the children out, or wander off, for any reason."

"We wouldn't. The car is shielded against the radiation."

Malcolm froze. "What radiation?" He didn't mind facing a mad doctor; even an armed mad doctor; but radiation? He didn't like the sound of _that_.

"Right. You don't know." For a moment Ga'we averted his eyes uncomfortably; but he looked back up as he continued, "Our sun's radiation has increased considerably in the last few centuries. Our skin's defences have been damaged; we get sick and die before we can reach old age." Uncomfortably, he added, "Your friend's dark complexion is the reason he got into such trouble. He might provide a cure."

Good Lord. Malcolm looked back dumbfounded.

"Don't worry," Ga'we muttered. "You're not going to spend enough time on this planet to be affected."

"I wasn't thinking about that," Malcolm breathed out.

The Doctor gave out a mirthless huff. "I don't even know why we bring children into the world. We certainly aren't doing them any favours."

"It's because we hope in a better future, Thar'lol," Echia said in a voice chocked by emotion, from behind.

Malcolm had almost forgotten about the passengers in the back of the vehicle, they'd been so silent. Suddenly, Ga'we appeared even nobler: he might have wanted to help Dvo'we, instead of Travis. "Doctor…" The man's eyes came up again, troubled. "Yours is a courageous decision. When this is over, you can be sure that we will do whatever is in our power to find a cure for your people."

Phlox was certainly going to involve the interspecies medical exchange program.

"Mom, I'm hungry," a small voice suddenly said. "Me too," another one echoed.

The two girls shrunk against their mother, big eyes spying him from under the protecting wing of the woman's arms. They were cute things, and now that he knew these people's plight he was looking at them with different eyes. He gave them a smile, and was rewarded when he saw the apprehension in their eyes quickly vanish, replaced by curiosity.

"Hush, girls," Ga'we's wife said. She glanced up, apologetically. "Shur woke us before dawn saying we had to go with him, and we had only minutes to get dressed and leave. They missed breakfast and I didn't think of bringing along some food."

Malcolm thought the woman looked confused and frightened; also quite fatigued. Well, no wonder. One moment she was sleeping peacefully in her bed; the next she was abandoning her home, never to return.

Ga'we reached a solicitous hand to his wife. She grabbed it and gave him a strained smile. "I'm okay, Thar'lol; don't worry."

"On our ship you'll be able to eat to your heart's content, but in the meantime..." Malcolm felt his pockets and produced a few nutrient bars. "I'm not sure they'll like them, but it's all I've got. They're mostly proteins."

Echia's gaze shifted hesitantly to her husband.

Ga'we shrugged. "Our physiologies are very similar. Humans didn't have a problem with our food, so I doubt we'd have one with theirs."

"We'll transport out of here in no time," Malcolm said, trying to sound reassuring. The problem was he was having a hard time believing his own words. His sixth sense was sending him clear messages to the contrary, and unfortunately he had learnt that it was rarely wrong. And now that he was so close to the friend he had failed to protect, it was getting difficult to ignore that knot of fear in his gut that told him he might be too late. How many hours had Travis been in the hands of that unscrupulous doctor? He didn't want to calculate. Too bloody many, and each was a thorn in his side.

Enough. Malcolm discarded the cumbersome jacket-with-incorportated-arms and pushed his door open. "Break a leg, Malcolm Reed," he muttered to himself. He caught Ga'we's odd look and raised his eyebrows. "Ah, that's only… Never mind." Languages were a complicated affair. "Wish me luck."

* * *

Dvo'we snorted as he looked up from his microscope. "It's a wonder you people can even function properly."

Why was he saying it aloud? By now the man was past being able to hear and understand him. Well, that was exactly why: he didn't need to make it a point to ignore him any longer. He was free to speak to his heart's content.

If only he could reproduce that dark brown pigment... He had taken samples of most of the Human's tissues and organs, but nothing provided any answer to their problem; only that pigment in his skin, which seemed to have highly protective properties: if he could replicate it and inject it in the population... He'd be the most powerful man on Ajfwqa; even that pompous idiot of Governor Ety'we would have to bow before him. Just think! He could charge any price and be his world's saviour. Indeed, he could decide who to save and who not to save.

He _must_ find a way.

* * *

Crouched at the back of the house, Malcolm studied his scanner. Useless. The bloody house was shielded, like all the bloody buildings on the planet – only now he knew why. He'd have to do it the old-fashioned way, using his natural sensors: eyes and ears.

Ga'we had given him as many details of the house's layout as he could remember. Not that the man did remember much; but at least Malcolm knew how to find the lab, where hopefully he'd find Travis.

Still in a crouch, he quickly reached the back door and put an ear to it. Not a sound could be heard. Unzipping a leg pocket, he got out a few tools he'd borrowed from Trip – bless the man's generous heart – and started fiddling with the lock. This planet really sucked. The heat was intolerable. Sweat was already trickling down his face, over the scratches Draga had inflicted, making them sting like crazy.

In the Section they'd give you no more than a few minutes to get past a lock, and he'd been damned good, if he said so himself. So why was this blighted thing proving so difficult? Malcolm felt frustration mount. He passed an arm over his wet brow and closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath to centre himself again. He changed tools and was at it once more, trying not to think of the time ticking by.

Some ten minutes later he pinched the bridge of his nose, defeated.

There must be another way in. Still in a crouch, he moved a couple of metres back from the wall and studied the house. There were windows… He could break a glass pane; but that would attract attention. Lifting his eyes to the upper floor, he saw something that rekindled his hope: a window there had been left ajar. And... yes, he also knew how he could reach it.

* * *

"Thar, I'm not feeling all that well."

When Echia called him by his given name, without adding the affectionate 'lol', Ga'we knew the matter was serious. He turned and studied his wife with a professional eye. She looked pale and exhausted. "It's normal for you to be tired, love. You should eat one of those nutrient bars yourself," he suggested. "In your condition you can easily-"

"Thar." She captured him with urgent eyes. "Why is it that when it comes to his own wife a doctor never has any insight?" Her voice was strained; suddenly, she wrapped her arms around her abdomen and doubled over.

Ga'we's eyes went wide. "It's not time yet!"

"He doesn't seem to know it," Echia whined.

One of the girls started crying. "Mom, I'm frightened," she sobbed. The other one soon followed suit.

Ga'we scrambled to the back of the vehicle.

* * *

Malcolm lost his footing, swung freely on the lithe branch he'd been holding onto with his hands, and came crashing violently down with a shoulder against the thorny tree trunk. He bit his lip not to cry out in pain, while in the silence of his mind he cursed heavily against his brilliant idea. The last time he had climbed a tree he must have been about twelve – and the thing hadn't threatened to shred him to pieces.

Grimacing, he managed to make a lever with one foot against the trunk and pushed away from it. A few of those thick thorns remained embedded in his arm and shoulder. Blood began to soak his T-shirt. Brilliant. Scratched by a girl and injured by a bloody tree; Trip was going have the time of his life, once he got back.

Regaining his balance, both feet now firmly against the trunk, Malcolm resumed heaving himself up. Finally he was level with the open window. Grabbing its ledge proved another dangerous manoeuvre; but seconds later he was crouching on the floor of a bedroom. He stayed in that position, taking a few moments to let his pulse return to normal while his sight adjusted to the difference in light. Now that he thought of it, it was strange Dvo'we had left a window open. Houses were – he understood – generally kept pretty well sealed against the radiation.

Well, never look a gift horse in the mouth – he mused. But then again, it wouldn't hurt to keep the issue in mind.

No sound could be heard; so, after a moment, he got up and walked to the door. This too was ajar. He widened the gap and took a peek. There wasn't much light, but he wasn't going to complain about that either. He could make out the top of the staircase Ga'we had spoken about. Stealthily, he let himself out and started down it, thanking heaven the steps didn't creak.

No one was around. The place seemed deserted. Malcolm began to fear that Ga'we had been mistaken; maybe Travis wasn't here, and they'd wasted all this time for nothing. That knot in his gut tightened with a vengeance. His heartbeat picked up speed again. Until he had checked the lab, he wouldn't know.

He felt very alert; alive. There was a vein of enjoyment, buried deep underneath the anxiousness, and a part of him felt ashamed of it.

There was the lab, at the end of the corridor.

* * *

"Now," Ga'we said, placing Heda beside her sister Hilda on the front seats. "Why don't you girls play a bit, and pretend you are driving us around, huh?"

He watched them get excitedly on their knees and grab the steering wheel, and turned back to Echia, who had stretched as best she could on the back seat, her face covered in perspiration. "Labour is only beginning," he said, getting a strand of hair off her forehead. "I don't need to tell you it's going to be a while yet."

"I don't want our son to be born in a transporter beam," Echia said, with a tremulous smile.

"Of course not. What an idea."

Ga'we smiled back, but inside he was far from serene. Too much was happening, and all so fast. And the idea their son might be born on an alien ship made him unexpectedly sad. He felt confused. Reed might think he was being courageous and doing the right thing, but deep down he felt somewhat of a traitor to his people. What if he was denying them the chance to live normal lives again?

He could only hope Phlox was going to help them. He seemed an honourable person.

TBC

Looking forward to your comments


	12. Chapter 12

I totally agree with STReader's review to Begoogled's Break Travis Month story: she did a geat job to flesh out Travis's character (go read Gargalesis if you haven't, it's grea fun!). Admittedly I didn't manage as much in this - sorry! Malcolm always manages to take my hand!

§ 12 §

Flat against the wall by the lab door, Malcolm got his scanner out again. Maybe inside the house it would be kind enough to work?

Damn.

Either inside walls were also shielded on this planet, or no one was at home. But if no one was in the house, why would there be an open window? No – they must be here.

He put an ear to the door. Again, not a sound. With measured movements, he put away the scanner and reached behind his back for his phase pistol. He took a deep breath and flung the door open.

* * *

"Commander?"

That one word alone – Commander – told Trip Jon's state of mind: concern was eating at him. Trip had gone up to the ready room to give Archer a report on their laborious progress. He could just as well have pushed a button and done it through the comm., but he wanted to look his Captain in the eye when he told him they were behind schedule. He was tired and frustrated and felt that for a moment he could use the proximity of a close friend, of someone who'd take a look at him and know how he felt. Besides, he could use a few minutes' break. Clear his mind. Hess and Rostov were more than capable of carrying on without him for a while.

Now that he looked at Archer, though, he felt even worse about breaking the news.

"More slowly than I'd thought, Capt'n," Trip said wearily. He passed a hand over his face; the stubble there was beginning to bother him. "Whatever has screwed the thing up? I want to make sure I know what it is. It can't happen again; not when we have people to bring back."

Archer's eyes bore into him, and Trip could read a whole lot of emotions there; but understanding was prominent, as it always was.

"Hoshi has lost Malcolm's biosigns," the Captain said quietly. "Prep a shuttlepod and keep it ready to leave.

A lesser Captain might have released some tension and vented it on his subordinate; barked to get a move on and be worth the money Starfleet was spending on him. Not this Captain. It was all it took to give Trip back his old resolve.

"I'll fly it myself, if necessary, and fight off whatever they throw at us," he said in a determined voice. An idea struck him. "Capt'n, what if I prepped that Suliban cell ship? Its cloakin' device's come already handy once, on a rescue mission..."

Archer's green eyes narrowed. "Can you fly it without Travis's help?"

Trip let himself go to a smile. "Piece of cake."

* * *

Travis was lying face up on a flat surface in the middle of the room. In a fraction of a second Malcolm's mind had registered the fact, but he forced himself to drag his eyes away and focus on the rest. Arms outstretched, phase pistol at the ready, he scanned the place visually as he took one quick step inside and leaned with his back on the wall just beside the door. His heart was racing and he badly wanted to take a better look at his friend; rush to him, check his vital signs; yet his tactical mind was stalling him, analysing the situation, sniffing out dangers.

More or less recognisable pieces of equipment lining the room... Tiles on the floor and walls... A sink... A desk... Green capes hanging on the far wall... No windows... No mad doctors... Only that immobile form in the middle of the room.

Dear God.

In a flash, Malcolm crossed to his friend and placed two fingers at the base of his neck, trying to ignore the stains on the biobed and the blood; and especially the man's eyes, which were not quite closed. Where the hell was that pulse? And then he almost got dizzy with relief: a faint throb – life. He allowed himself a better look at Travis's body – what he could see of it, for the man was covered up to the waist by a light sheet. It was a battlefield. There were signs of incisions, roughly stitched. A thin tube protruded from an arm; it was stopped at the end, but Malcolm could tell that it was filled with blood. He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder: his skin felt cold and clammy.

Thoughts teemed in Malcolm's mind. He had to get Travis back on Enterprise as quickly as possible. He'd have to carry him back to the... But wouldn't that aggravate his injuries? There was nothing else he could do. No, wait – he should page the ship right now and have him transported out while he returned to-

"So you've come."

The words had hardly been spoken than Malcolm let himself drop to the floor and rolled, wanting to land back on his feet and blindly discharge his phase pistol in the direction of the voice. He had forgotten about those thorns: white pain erupted in his arm, and his weapon almost fell out of his hand.

Bloody fool! He had let his emotions take over, and turned his back to the door; lowered his guard, like a damn novice!

He never had a chance. Something hit him in the chest and he was sent flying back a distance. A harsh laugh – a laugh fraught with mockery – echoed in the room.

"You disappoint me, Lieutenant. I thought you'd offer more of a challenge."

Sprawled on the floor, Malcolm fought to keep his mind from folding. Things were a confused jumble; all he knew was that what had hit him on his sternum must be a battering-ram. He didn't know if he could move, or even where he was. But his memory got jolted pretty fast when a face came looming over him. Dvo'we jabbed a syringe into his neck and he was stunned enough that he could do nothing about it.

"I doubt you'll prove very useful for my research," the man said disparagingly, studying him as he would a lab rat. He shrugged. "But you never know."

"Don't count on my collaboration," Malcolm choked out.

Another laugh echoed off the tiles. "That's a good one! Don't worry. I won't need it."

There was a tingling sensation all over Malcom's body; he tried to move and his limbs responded sluggishly.

Standing up again, Dvo'we nudged Malcolm none too kindly with one foot. "Aren't you frozen yet?" he asked impatiently.

Fury rose through Malcolm like hot lava through a volcano. Damn, but he wouldn't fail like this. With a growl he summoned all he had and kicked his legs like a scissor, managing to take the feet from under the Doctor. He was thoroughly pleased to see the cold eyes go wide with surprise as the man crashed to the floor; his next kick was aimed at the Ajfwqa'we's 'centre of balance', that protuberance that looked so much like a nose. Harris would be proud at how he had filed that precious piece of information away.

Even sluggish fingers could manage the little pressure on the trigger it took to fire a phase pistol. A moment later Dvo'we slumped unconscious.

"Go visit whatever hell spat you out, Doctor," Malcolm rasped. _And be grateful I am not as unprincipled as you are, or you'd be dead by now_ – he silently added.

Malcolm fell back and groaned. That beam hadn't quite managed to send him into the world of dreams, but had added a dull pain in his chest to the list of injuries. Reality was a pretty unsteady thing right now, and God only knew what Dvo'we had injected into him. It would be so good to slump on the floor and let himself drift away... Instead, with an effort, he rolled onto his side, clear-headed enough at least to choose the uninjured one this time.

He stayed like that for a long moment, trying to summon the energy for what he knew he must do, expecting any moment to feel the effects of whatever drug was coursing through his bloodstream. What had Dvo'we said? Frozen? He must move, dammit.

With difficulty, he made it to his knees. Things were blurred; he hung his head, closing his eyes – and there was Travis, his worrisome image perfectly clear against the backdrop of his mind. There was no time to waste. His head seemed to weigh a ton right now, but he lifted it back up. The sink was nearby... _Come on, Lieutenant_. He grabbed its edge, and ignoring the pins and needles in his body pulled himself upright. Things were really swimming now. The few steps to cross to Travis were quite a challege. He swayed like a drunkard and it was a miracle he didn't end up draped on his unconscious friend.

The communicator. Where was the bloody thing? It wasn't as if the trousers the quartermaster had given him to appear like an Ajfwqa'we had so very many pockets; and two of them had been taken by those ridiculous fake hands Trip had... Ah – there.

"Reed to Enterprise." Malcolm cleared his throaty voice and tried again. "Enterprise, respond."

_Think, you dumb – the shielding… _

Groping about, he staggered to the corridor, and then to the door. He fumbled with the alien opening device, and finally made it to the outside.

"Reed to Enterprise."

"Yes, Lieutenant, we're here," this time someone promptly replied.

Archer. The Captain's firm voice pierced Malcolm's soul like a ray of sunshine, helping him recover some lucidity. He might be in a hole, but he wasn't alone.

"You must transport Travis out, Sir. He needs urgent medical assistance. I'll follow with-"

"Sorry, Malcolm," Archer interrupted. "The transporter is out. We'll have to come and get you the old-fashioned way."

Malcolm grimaced against the onslaught of this new setback. "That's too dangerous, Sir. They'll detect the shuttlepod and intercept it."

"Not if it's cloaked."

"Cloaked?" Malcolm frowned in puzzlement, his mind still foggy. Where had they ever acquired cloaking technology? But Archer gave him no time to think.

"T'Pol has triangulated your position," he went on urgently. "South of the building you're in, about half a kilometre away, is the beach. Can you get Travis out to it without being too conspicuous?"

"Positive, Captain."

"Then do it. We're coming to get you. Archer out."

Malcolm leaned with both outstretched arms on the house's wall, head dangling between his shoulders. How much time did he have? If it launched now, a shuttlepod would take about twenty minutes to reach them. He had to get a move on. But his tongue had obviously been disconnected from his brain. The way he felt right now, it would be strenuous carrying his own sorry self around, let alone a hefty man like Travis.

And yet it took but a shadow to enter his peripheral vision for his body to find unexpected vitality. Malcolm dove to the side. The world started spinning and the pain in his shoulder threatened to take him out, but the warmth of phaser beams cracking beside him kept him rolling.

A security guard. He should have known.

The corner of the house. With a last effort, Malcolm rolled behind it; then turned on his belly and did some target practice of his own. The man had been sure too early of his victory, and was in full view. A moment later he had slumped to the ground.

Any more surprises? Malcolm painfully reached for his scanner. It showed no other biosigns than his own, at least on the outside perimeter of the house. He didn't think Dvo'we would have more than one security guard, but he'd keep all senses on the alert – or rather as alert as he currently could.

With a grunt he pushed to his feet; and staggered to the guard. Good thing he always carried around one pair of handcuffs with him. You never knew when they'd come handy – like now.

Dvo'we. The man supposedly would be unconscious for a while longer, but he'd better make sure he too posed no more danger. He stumbled back to the lab and looked around for something to fetter him with. Then his eyes went back to Travis: the man was in restraints.

_Well, Doctor. I think I'll let you try some of your own medicine._

* * *

"Ga'we!"

The call didn't go very far; Malcolm was out of breath. His head was a beehive and his legs were going to fold at any time; his body didn't want to stop tingling. He didn't know how he had managed to come this far. He swayed, perilously out of balance, and leaned one hand against a tree-trunk – blessedly not one of those thorny ones – to keep himself upright. Where was the bloody Doctor? There was the egg-mobile, in the distance. Couldn't he see him? Travis was deadweight on his shoulder and he was coming to his last drop of fuel.

Twenty – thirty metres more. Clenching his jaw, he pushed off and took another step, sheer will-power giving him energy he was sure he didn't have. Now he could see through the vehicle's darkened glasses. Ga'we seemed to be on the back seat with Echia and...

Malcolm let Travis slip to the ground, too exhausted to shout again; finally Ga'we spied him. He threw one door open and Malcolm caught sight of bare skin, and of Echia being stretched out on the seat.

What the hell was going on? Surely not… The twins where wailing at the top of their lungs. They seemed out of control.

"Doctor, you're needed," Malcolm said harshly over the din. "My friend's condition is critical!"

Ga'we spared him a shocked look; then his eyes shifted to Travis and darkened with worry. Finally he turned back to Echia. "I'll be back," he said. He jumped out of the car and crouched by Travis. In his hand, as if by magic, a medical scanner had appeared. A few seconds, and he was shaking his head. "His vital signs are very faint, he's slipping away," he said tautly.

"He's not going to," Malcolm growled. "You hear me?" He grabbed Ga'we by the shirt, despair and frustration getting the better of him. They were so close... "Do something! There is a shuttlepod on the way, it will be here in minutes!"

Ga'we got up abruptly and ran to the vehicle. A moment later he was back with a Doctor's bag. He rummaged through it and got out a syringe.

"What's that?" Malcolm asked.

A strangled cry came from the car. "Thar!"

Ga'we made to stand up again; but Malcolm pulled him back down. "This man needs you," he said in his most dangerous voice. "For heaven's sake, anything else can wait!"

The Doctor held his gaze, and there was no mistaking the anger that set his features. "My wife is about to give birth," he spat out, jerking his arm away from Malcolm's grip and sending spikes up his limb. He glanced at the car, looking torn; then his gaze bore into Malcolm's eyes. "If you want me to try and save your friend, the least you can do is help my son come into the world."

Malcolm blinked. His mind was in a vortex. He must be dreaming. "Birth?" he croaked out. Echia hadn't looked pregnant. The import of Ga'we's words eventually reached his sluggish brain. "Help her give birth?" he cried out. "I'm no bloody obstetrician!"

"Just do it," Ga'we barked. "I can assure you she'll do most of the job."

TBC

Looking forward to your comments!


	13. Chapter 13

Thank you all for your comments.

§ 13 §

Trip cast a look at one of his travelling companions. He was glad Archer had come along, instead of T'Pol. Not that he didn't appreciate the Vulcan's qualities: she was a fine Officer and loyal to the crew; but with Archer it was different. There was no cultural or language barrier between them; indeed they understood each other at a glance.

The Captain had joined the rescue party on the grounds that he had already piloted a Suliban cell-ship; and so he had, that time he had managed to come back from the future. Sitting at navigation, however, Trip mused that it didn't quite feel like it: their flying wasn't exactly very smooth. Malcolm would probably turn green on their way back.

"We're approaching the thermo-barrier," Archer said. "Better not risk being spotted: engage that cloaking device, Trip."

"Aye, Sir."

At least, since the time they'd use the cell-ship to rescue the Captain and Malcolm, Trip had more or less mastered the art of cloaking the thing. He did so now, and once he was satisfied that everything worked as it should, he returned to look at the concentrating man in the piloting seat.

A born leader – that's what Archer was; a Captain who didn't take advantage of his superior rank but shared his crew's joys and pains, suffered when one of them suffered, and didn't think twice about jumping right into the action. Well, Malcolm undoubtedly wouldn't count _that_ as a quality, but if Trip ever got his own Captaincy, this was exactly how he wanted to be.

The cell-ship shook as it crossed into the planet's atmosphere. Gradually, the darkness of deep space was replaced by the glare of a spotless sunny day.

Trip checked his instruments. "We're one degree off, Capt'n."

The pod veered suddenly portside, and Archer tensed as he fought to regain control of their course. When he finally had, he cast a rueful glance at his passengers. "Sorry. I'll get the knack of it sooner or later."

"Better be sooner, Capt'n. You don't want Malcolm to throw up in such a restricted space," Trip joked, wanting to break the heavy mood.

"I can give the Lieutenant something to reduce the nausea," Phlox said in a professional tone, breaking the silence for the first time.

"Nah, he's too disciplined to throw up in front of his Captain," Archer bantered back.

Trip smiled. There was no mistaking that they were both uptight, but he liked the way Archer always recognised his need to fight stress and responded to it. T'Pol of course had no sense of humour. She could communicate calm in the face of danger, but she would never be able to know what stirred inside a Human when danger loomed; she'd never know that weight on her heart or that chocking knot in her throat, and the effect on them of an undoubtedly illogical joke. For her there was only logic; for them there was an entire palette of emotions to deal with, and not all of them pleasant.

Trip bit his lip, suddenly overwhelmed by worry. "Capt'n, d'you think…" He couldn't quite put his fears into words, but didn't need to.

Eyes fixed straight ahead, Archer said, "Malcolm will have done his best. Let's focus on doing the same, Trip."

But a frown betrayed what he was keeping to himself.

* * *

One of Echia's hands closed tightly around Malcolm's bloodied arm, spreading agony up and down his limb. He bit his lip, repressing a groan. He wished he could take the time to pull those damn thorns out of his arm and shoulder, but there were too many and it wasn't exactly the right moment.

He might know nothing about labour and birth, but this – he was sure – wasn't how women delivered a baby on Earth. Echia's bared abdomen was crossed from hip bone to hip bone by a scar-like stripe, and with each… contraction? it stretched and widened, like a wound that wanted to reopen.

Realising he was staring, Malcolm grabbed the jacket he had left on the front seat and tore the lining out of it, which he used as an improvised handkerchief to dab the perspiration off Echia's forehead. "You're doing fine," he mumbled. He felt absolutely inadequate, an intruder; he'd rather fight to the death with an Andorian than this.

"And how would you know?" Echia choked out, managing a faint smile.

_Yeah_. Malcolm returned a strained smile of his own. "Well, I..."

A moan escaped the woman's lips, drying the words in his throat – and it wasn't hard, for it was parched. He regretted not having any water; Echia probably needed it even more than he. As if drawn by a magnet, his eyes returned to the scar on her belly. Although it looked like the skin was unfolding rather than splitting, suggesting there was indeed an opening there made for the purpose of delivering a baby, giving birth was obviously as painful affair on Ajfwqa as it was on Earth. Once again Echia's hand closed vice-like around Malcolm's arm, the pain making him temporarily dizzy and not helping his already wobbly focus. But his gaze couldn't shift from the alien creature that was beginning to appear; about to come to life under his very eyes, while his mind registered every sound in the background as Ga'we fought to keep Travis alive. If that wasn't enough, he was automatically counting down minutes – soon the pod would be at the beach, and they were still here.

He heard Ga'we curse, and his heart skipped a beat.

_Dear God, please_.

He ached to run to Travis's side: he should have a friend with him in case... No, he must think positively; besides, he couldn't leave Echia alone.

The contraction had passed and she was taking deep breaths. Her eyes were lined with fatigue, her face covered in perspiration again. Malcolm passed the cloth over it. A thought struck him: the twins? A glance to the front of the vehicle told him that, with the perspicacity of children, the girls had sensed that the adults around them couldn't spare them any attention and had quieted down. They were sitting very close to each other for comfort in the driver's seat.

"The twins are okay," Malcolm said softly, finding Echia's eyes on him when he turned back. He still felt ill-at-ease, especially after her previous comment. "You're right, I'm not trained for this," he admitted. "But you'll be fine. I promise."

There, he'd done it again.

A strained huff of a laugh greeted that impossible assurance. "Just don't let my son fall to the floor," she said.

Malcolm saw a vein in her neck swell up as a new contraction hit. He could tell they were getting stronger, for now she was unable to hold in the pain. The skin fold was widening considerably, under the unstoppable force of life pushing forth; Malcolm was grateful there was no blood; only a clear liquid oozed out – but then again, how was he to know what colour these people's blood was? He swallowed hard.

As Echia fell back, panting, Malcolm realised he'd been holding his breath with her, and let it out. How much longer? He allowed himself to glance towards Ga'we: the Doctor was still kneeling near Travis, who looked… _Dammit, Travis, not now, not when we're so close to getting you home._

"It's coming," Echia choked out.

Malcolm whipped his head back. She had let go of his arm and grabbed the edge of the seat. Wide-eyed, Malcolm watched small feet push through the fully widened opening. Echia couldn't see them: her eyes were scrunched closed in the effort, and though she looked to be pushing with all her might the baby didn't seem to make any progress. Malcolm started to wonder if he wasn't supposed to do something to help: maybe pull it out. He was opening his mouth to call Ga'we when the baby suddenly slipped out. Before he knew it he was holding a small Ajfwqa'we infant. He lifted it and held it awkwardly for a moment; suddenly aware that he hadn't been able to wash his hands.

Wasn't there supposed to be an umbilical cord? Panic struck him. What was it they did to new-borns? Should he turn him up-side down and pat his back to clear his airways?

"Ga'we!" he screamed. Just then the baby started to cry, in an unexpectedly loud voice. Right – he remembered – Ajfwqa'wes breathe through their skin. Never had a wail sounded so nice to his ears. One life was safe: now they had to save the other one.

"Is that my son?" Ga'we cried out excitedly.

"I'll take your word for it," Malcolm called back, wondering how one could tell. "All I see is a healthy baby: two legs and two-"

He choked on the words: the tiny form had only two arms. His smile fell as he shifted troubled eyes to Echia, who reached out with eager arms; Malcolm gently relinquished her son to her.

"He _is_ perfectly healthy, Lieutenant," she said, all about her smiling. "The second set of arms develops later on." Her gaze tracked to something over Malcolm's shoulder and he turned to see two pairs of incredulous eyes peek from behind the driver's seat.

"Do you like your brother?" Echia asked them with a tired smile.

"I've stabilised your friend," Ga'we said, suddenly close, "but it's touch and go. I can't do much here."

Sore all over, Malcolm slowly disentangled himself from the egg-mobile, to give the man a moment of privacy with his family. Dizziness returned as he stood up.

Ga'we steadied him. "Are you okay?"

"Okay is not quite the way I feel right now; but I'll manage." Before letting the Doctor disappear into the vehicle, Malcolm urged, "They are coming for us on the beach. We must get there as soon as possible."

Ga'we nodded. "I'll check my wife and son and then we'll go."

* * *

"I'll carry your friend."

Malcolm turned. There was a light in Ga'we's eyes that hadn't been there before. He looked full of energy, and Malcolm was tempted to just nod a tired assent. "You'll have to help your wife," he said instead, with a faint smile. "I'll be fine."

Ga'we passed a medical scanner over him. "I know enough about your people's physiology by now to be able to tell that you wouldn't make it fifty metres, let alone hundreds of them. He glanced at the readings and frowned. You've been stunned, haven't you?"

"Almost." Malcolm rubbed a hand on his sternum; the spot was still tender. He flinched away with a hiss when the Doctor touched his injured shoulder.

"What's coursing through your bloodstream isn't helping, believe me," the Doctor said grimly. Moving the scanner to Travis, he continued, "Besides, Echia doesn't need any help."

"But she's just… Surely..." Malcolm pressed two fingers over his eyelids. His thinking processes might not be that clear, but he thought a woman who'd just delivered a baby wouldn't be in shape for a walk through the woods.

"Are women on Earth unable to walk, after delivery?" Ga'we enquired.

There was a note of curiosity in his voice, reminding Malcolm of Phlox. He winced. "I'm not sure, actually." He wasn't sure of too many things, at the moment.

Gently, Ga'we put one arm under Travis's knees and one under his shoulders, and picked him up. Echia joined them, her face a bit lined but for the rest not the worse for wear. She had her new-born safely wrapped in Malcolm's jacket. Heda and Hilda were at her side. They looked frightened.

"I want to go back inside the car," one of them whined.

"They aren't used to being in the outdoors," Ga'we explained to Malcolm. "Children are taught from an early age that it is dangerous." He sighed. "For them it is even more so than for adults. Soon we will be on a big starship," he told his daughters. "It's only a short walk."

* * *

The walk wasn't truly that long, but it proved quite difficult because of the terrain. At some point Malcolm picked the twins up, managing to settle both of them on his uninjured arm. Although they must be at least three years old, the girls were quite a bit thinner than a human child of that age, and quite light. When they broke out of the vegetation and onto the beach, he was more than ready to let them down again, though. The girls looked at the sea in awe, afraid to move from the spot where Malcolm had deposited them. This was probably the first time they had been near it, smelt the salt air, felt the sand under their feet and heard the breakers crash on the strand. How different from his own childhood – he mused with a touch of sadness.

"Lieutenant?" Ga'we had lowered Travis to the sand, and was passing a sleeve across his wet brow.

"They should be here…" Malcolm studied the sky. He could see a vessel in the distance, but his anticipation was killed by all kinds of alarm bells ringing suddenly in his mind. Archer had said a little word, 'cloaked', which didn't add up with what he was seeing.

"Damn," he cursed lowly.

"What?" Ga'we enquired.

"They must have traced my communication to the ship and located us."

And then a Southern voice was calling him. He turned. There was a square, as if suspended in the air: Trip was in it. The man jumped out onto the sand and started running in his direction.

"Come on, come on," Malcolm urged, scooping the girls up again, and herding Echia towards the cell-ship. "Help the Doctor with Travis," he shouted to Trip. The Engineer shot the group a curious look, but didn't stop.

The girls were crying in fear now, clinging to Malcolm for dear life, and it proved a real challenge to detach all those little arms that terror made strong, and hold each child out to Phlox, who had appeared at the hatch. Malcolm helped Echia mount the ship; then turned to look for the rest of the party: Trip carrying Travis, and Ga'we beside him, were on their way. Gratefully, he accepted Phlox's proffered hand and let the Doctor pull him on board.

Archer, from the pilot seat, gave him a nod. His green eyes traced him up and down, before he said, "Good to see you again, Lieutenant." The words, though, were marred by concern. Malcolm nodded back, too weary to speak.

It was a tight fit in the small cell-ship. He hadn't had a chance to warn the Captain that he and Travis wouldn't be the only passengers. He helped Echia to the only seat besides piloting and navigation, and watched Phlox and Ga'we place Travis on the floor. Trip jumped in last and closed the hatch.

"We're all in, Capt'n," the Engineer said.

The little ship soared.

Malcolm saw Trip glance at their immobile Helmsman, his features drawn with worry. When the blue eyes sought his, he met them with unease, even though the silent message he could read in them was only one that said, 'it's good to have you back'. Had he failed them? Had he only brought back a dead body? He plonked himself down in a corner, from where he numbly watched Phlox and Ga'we fuss over Travis the way Doctors do, with that measured professionalism that seems so out of place in emergency situations.

Soon after they had set course back to Enterprise, three Ajfwqa'we planes came roaring past them, forcing Archer into abrupt dodging manoeuvres. Malcolm was glad they were in a cloaked vessel, for he wouldn't really have been up to fighting them off.

At the next brusque course correction the girls, of one accord, left their mother's side and settled each on one side of him, clinging to his legs like limpets. He felt his face colour; but another jolt prompted him to put protective arms around them, before – light as they were – they went flying about.

He caught Trip's faint smile, and decided that was it. Closing his eyes, Malcolm dreamed of his quarters.

TBC

Hope this wasn't too graphic! Looking forward to your comments, as usual


	14. Chapter 14

Glad you enjoyed the last chapter. Last but one.

§ 14 §

Sat listlessly on a biobed, shirt half taken off and dangling from one shoulder, Malcolm held the elbow of his injured arm as Ga'we plucked the thorns from his anaesthetised limb. The alien Doctor had offered to take over from a young medic who had looked to be struggling with all those embedded prickles, and Malcolm had given his assent. It was a seemingly interminable operation: Ga'we had been at it for a while. Malcolm badly wanted to close his eyes, but feared that if he did so he'd find himself instantly in dreamland and fall off the biobed. He was _that_ tired. So he resisted valiantly.

Another thorn was released with a soft click in the container beside him. Malcolm glanced at the thick, black things. No wonder his arm was swollen and – until the numbing shot – had been giving him hell. His eyes shifted to Ga'we. He'd been wrong about the man, and maybe it was time to make amends. A bit of conversation would help him keep awake.

"I owe you an apology," he said quietly.

Ga'we's eyebrows rose questioningly, and he paused to meet his gaze.

"You know," Malcolm went on with a small jerk of his head. "When I returned to the car the thought briefly crossed my mind that you and Echia..."

"Ah – that." Ga'we's lips curved in a smile, but there was a rueful quality to it. "I should have told you my wife was pregnant, but I was afraid you'd refuse to help us. So, as you see, I owe you an apology as well."

The words hurt more than Malcolm cared to admit. "Do I come across as such a heartless bastard?" he wondered with a mirthless huff. His pessimism at the moment was in full swing.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor said, with a puzzled frown. "That's not what I meant. You had a mission to accomplish, and a woman at the end of her pregnancy might… Well, you've seen what." He resumed his job, shifting a bit to get around Malcolm's shoulder. "You come across as someone who takes his job very seriously, Lieutenant; and that does you honour."

Malcolm tightened his lips. Once again Ga'we's words, quite unwillingly, had managed to hurt him. Travis wouldn't be lying between life and death, if he'd been the conscientious Officer the man thought he was.

The Doctor's tweezers pried another thorn from his flesh.

"How many bloody more are there?" Malcolm snapped. He saw Ga'we shoot him a look and regretted his short temper. It was a child of many emotions, many of them self-directed, but he didn't feel like explaining. He could apologise, though; but Ga'we anticipated him.

"These thorns have saved your life, you know?" he said. "You should be grateful."

Malcolm blinked. "Come again?"

"Every person on Ajfwqa knows to stay away from the plant they come from: their poison is quite painful, as you know well; but it contains a substance that acts as a potent antidote to quite a few natural and synthetic drugs. There is no doubt in my mind that these thorns counteracted the effect of what Dvo'we injected in you." He glanced knowingly at Malcolm's neck, where the syringe had entered. "Without them, in a matter of minutes you would have been unable to move, and at his mercy."

_Aren't you frozen yet? – _Dvo'we's harsh voice echoed in Malcolm's brain, and he shook his head incredulously.

"But to answer your question, we're almost finished. This is the last one," Ga'we went on, releasing another thorn in the container. He wet some gauze with antiseptic liquid and cleaned Malcolm's arm and shoulder. "We'll ask Doctor Phlox about something to help with the swelling."

The doors swished open and Trip came in. He immediately veered towards them.

"Doctor," he greeted; then looked at Malcolm. "How are you feelin'?"

Malcolm saw his blue eyes assess him, taking in all his injuries, from the bruise on his chest where the beam had hit him, to the scratch on his cheek; and of course his swollen arm. He didn't like all the attention and once again shunned his friend's gaze. He'd never liked people seeing him weak, and right now he felt much too vulnerable.

"Tired, that's all," he muttered. He flicked back a glance. "Doesn't look like you have rested much either."

"None of us has." Trip blew out a slow breath. "I think I'm ready to sleep for twelve hours straight."

For a moment silence took centre stage.

"Any news from Phlox?" Trip asked softly.

Malcolm cast a hooded glance at the closed door of the IC room. "Not yet."

"The Capt'n is talking to the Governor; he was givin' him a piece of his mind when I left," the Engineer informed. "The good news is that it doesn't look like the man's gonna do anything to retaliate. He may be crooked but seems smarter than that."

"He would know when to call it a lost game," Ga'we butted in, with dark sarcasm. "He's too much of a coward to risk even only losing consensus."

Silence fell again.

"Cute kids," Trip suddenly said.

With his usual enviable ease he had changed subject and mood. Not for the first time Malcolm wished he had just a fraction of his laid-back nature. Right now he himself was under a very heavy cloud, which he felt wasn't going to lift very soon.

"I took them and your wife to guest quarters," Trip continued with a smile, "but I doubt any of them'll be able to rest much: the baby was raising a ruckus."

Ga'we removed his surgical gloves. "After what we went through, I guess we'll survive that." Almost to himself, he added, "My wife and I have decided to call our son Shur. My best friend's name."

Malcolm thought he could take no more. He carefully put his arm back in the same blood-stained and tattered sleeve he'd removed moments before, and buttoned up his shirt. Then, without meeting anyone's gaze for fear of reading reproof in it, he let himself slip off the bed. "Sorry," he muttered, "but I'm really knackered."

"I'll walk you to your quarters," Trip offered. "You, Doc?"

Ga'we looked in the direction of the IC room. "I'll wait for Doctor Phlox."

* * *

"You okay?" Trip asked, after they'd been walking in the corridor in silence for a while.

Malcolm had dreaded the inquiry. He snorted. "Okay." His already raw emotions had been swelling in expectation of what he considered a stupid question; suddenly he lost control over them. He stopped and faced Trip. "No, I'm not okay, if you really want to know," he said none too kindly.

"Come on, Malcolm," Trip snapped back.

Trip didn't usually lose his patience very easily: lack of sleep and tension were obviously taking their toll on him too.

"You found him; you brought him back!" the Engineer exclaimed. "And by the looks of you, you didn't spare yourself in the process." He raked a hand through his hair. "You did all you could. Things sometimes get out of our control."

"What happened was my fault in the first place," Malcolm said in a low growl. He was past the point of no return. He knew he'd regret the words, but everything was crashing down on him; he was hurting too much to be gentle. "I wish you'd stop telling me I did nothing wrong," he barked. Eyes flashing, he made the final lunge. "If you were a true friend you'd be telling me what an idiot I was, taking that bloody walk that night. If you were a true friend you'd give me no bloody discounts."

He strode off, leaving Trip there. His sight was blurred by the time he got to his quarters. He fumbled with the door; didn't even switch on the light. He staggered to the bed and collapsed on it face down, without so much as taking his boots off.

In seconds he was asleep.

* * *

Travis was floating weightlessly, a bit like when he was up in the "sweet spot"; but he wasn't in the "sweet spot" – this he knew. Below him, he could see his immobile body flat on the biobed, hooked up to all kinds of machines, and for the first time he could also see the injuries that Dvo'we had inflicted. They were mostly surgical cuts, roughly stitched up, which made him look like a Frankenstein creation. Beside the bed, he could see Phlox and Archer, but he couldn't hear what they were saying.

If he was dead he was supposed to feel at peace, wasn't he? But it wasn't peace he felt. He felt a touch of sadness, but most of all anger. He was too young to die. He had a lot to give yet.

* * *

Nausea roiled in Archer's stomach and he had to close his eyes. In the cell-ship he'd hardly had the time to take a good look at Travis, but now, under the merciless lights of Sickbay, what the man had been subjected to was shockingly clear. Even with his eyes closed, the sound of the respirator was still there, drilling his brain with its soft hiss; so he steadied himself and looked again.

Phox, beside him, said softly, with the compassion that made him not only a fine physician but a fine man, "Ensign Mayweather was anaesthetised, Captain. He wouldn't have felt anything. Except fear," he amended darkly.

For a long moment Archer couldn't find any words. "You know," he said hoarsely at last. "On my planet, not so very long ago, people were stigmatised because of the darker colour of their skin. Considered inferior; reduced into slavery." He narrowed his eyes, feeling wrinkles that hadn't been there a couple of days before pull at them. "I had hoped not to encounter that kind of bigotry, ever, on this mission."

"To the Ajfwqa'wes, actually, the Ensign was quite the opposite: superior, valuable," Phlox said, always one to find a positive note.

"Valuable only because of the use they could make of him; what they could harvest from him," Archer commented, with barely restrained anger.

"He has something they lack. They want a cure for their problem, and unfortunately some of them will go to any length to find it."

Archer clamped down on another wave of hot fury. "Can a cure be found?" he forced himself to ask. Right now he felt more like letting the entire damn planet and its dwellers rot.

"I'm sure it can. With your permission, I'd like to submit the problem to the Interspecies Medical Exchange Program."

Archer felt Phlox's intense blue eyes on him and met them with discomfort. His feelings – he knew – were all over his face, and he wasn't very proud of them.

"Captain, not all Ajfwqa'wes were ready to kill for a cure," Phlox said quietly. "Don't forget what Doctor Ga'we has done to save Ensign Mayweather."

It wasn't easy to keep that in mind, with Travis like this before him. Archer tightened his lips, ashamed of how hard his heart felt right now but unable to let any mercy soften it.

"If we didn't help these people we'd be no better than Governor Ety'we and Doctor Dvo'we, Captain," Phlox insisted softly.

There was a long moment of silence.

"Do what you have to," Archer finally muttered. He took a step closer to the biobed and placed a gentle hand on his Helmsman's shoulder. "Keep me informed of any changes in his condition."

TBC

An epilogue will wrap it all up.


	15. Chapter 15

I wish to thank each and every one of my readers and reviewers. Sometimes I'm tempted to make volley retire, but you keep me going.

Last chapter. I did something I've never done before: changed a few things after the story had already been betaed. So any mistakes are entirely mine!

§ 15 §

_§ Two days later §_

He was tired of floating. He wanted his body back. He wanted his life back. Wanted it so much!

A cold vortex of air swept him, sucking him back down.

Travis opened his eyes. An indistinct form loomed over him. He raised his hands defensively, wanting to scream but unable to. Something was in this throat.

"Easy, Ensign, easy," a warm voice urged. "You're on Enterprise. You have nothing to fear."

Two firm but friendly hands guided his arms back down. Travis's vision slowly cleared, and the face of Doctor Phlox took form. The physician was passing a medical scanner over him, murmuring all the while reassuring words. Then he put the scanner away and engaged Travis's gaze.

"We're going to remove the tube in your throat, hmm?" the Doctor said, his voice, as ever, comforting. "I'll need you to exhale."

Without the tube things were, possibly, even worse. Travis coughed, his throat on fire, and opened panicked eyes wide when he heard how raspy his breathing sounded.

"It's perfectly normal," Phlox again reassured him. "I'll give you something for the discomfort, and it won't be long before you'll be breathing normally again."

"What happened?" Travis croaked out.

"Ah – it's a long story. But I guess we have time..."

* * *

Archer had showed up in Sickbay minutes after Phlox had informed him that his patient had regained consciousness. Like the time when he had been abducted by that automated repair station, his Captain had put a smile on and cracked a joke; but Travis could tell how thin that front had been. Behind it, very different emotions had stirred.

And then, the following day, as soon as Phlox had allowed visits, Hoshi had showed up. And Trip. Even T'Pol had looked relieved to see him on the mend. Only one man had been conspicuously absent. But finally the doors opened to let Lieutenant Reed through.

Travis pushed to a straighter position, studying the man who had brought him back to safety as he approached. Yes, this was the controlled Lieutenant Reed; not Malcolm, the friend.

"Lieutenant," he greeted, with a smile. He still felt weak, but made an effort not to show it.

"Ensign." Malcolm's lips tightened briefly. And then, quite unexpectedly, his shields failed. "It's good to know you're going to be fine, Travis," he said, deep in his chest.

The moment was gone as quickly as it had come. Malcolm straightened his already straight posture, and his emotions were once again locked safely behind the impenetrable grey of his eyes.

"Yeah, well…"

Travis really didn't know what to say. He could tell Malcolm held himself responsible for what had happened, but he didn't dare mention anything; the man, he was sure, wouldn't want to talk about it. Just as he didn't really want to talk about his own experience. Not so soon, at least; and not just with anywone, be that even a friend: first he'd have to test Phlox's degree in psychology.

"I'm kind of hard to kill off, I guess," he ended up blurting out, which got him a dry smile. "Thank you for bringing me back," he, however, wanted to add. "I've heard it wasn't exactly a walk in the park."

Wrong move. Malcolm crossed his arm over his chest in a defensive gesture, and his features closed off even more. "I only did what I had to," he said tersely.

There was a lot to be read in between the lines. _What the hell_. Travis couldn't keep things in any more.

"Lieutenant, what could you have possibly done if you had remained with us in the bar that night?" he asked directly. "When I accepted that girl's invitation to dance, we were lost in a sea of people. You couldn't have kept an eye on me even if you'd wanted to."

"Ensign-"

"Look," Travis cut him off, not caring one bit if he was out of line, "What's important to me is not that you took a walk that night: what's important, to me, is that you are my friend, and got me back. Mistakes are made. No one is perfect."

Malcolm looked at him for a long moment, emotion crossing his features. "That's... very generous of you. But a Security Officer can't think that way," he added, once again the stout Lieutenant. "It's too dangerous to excuse oneself, in this job."

Travis sighed. "It was horrible," he surprised himself admitting. He felt spent, and saw that Malcolm had noticed, but there was one last thing he had to say. "I just want you to know that I don't hold any grudge or anything," he added wearily. The Lieutenant gave a slow nod, as if to seal that tentative agreement.

"Get well soon," Malcolm said. And with another more military nod, he left.

* * *

Travis was out of danger, but life on board hadn't been the same in the past couple of days. Not for Trip. Something was off and it annoyed him to no end. It annoyed him, especially, because he knew what it was but hadn't done anything to put things right. He didn't want to take the first step with Malcolm. It wasn't a matter of pride; rather, he was afraid of what reaction he might get. He didn't want to spoil things any further; wanted to make sure that when they finally got down to it, the man would have let out all his pent-up emotions and could reason with a clear mind.

In the launchbay, where they had gathered to say good-bye to Ga'we and his family, about to board the Shuttlepod that would take them to the Southern Continent, Trip studied his friend, trying to read his state of mind. They hadn't talked to each other, except for some stilted work interactions, since the moment Malcolm had accused him of being a false friend and left him standing in that corridor. Trip had mulled the words over and over in his mind, and had convinced himself there might be some truth in them. Of course he had only tried to soothe a hurting friend, but maybe Malcolm was right, maybe he had done it the wrong way.

"We are indebted to you and your family, Doctor," Archer told Ga'we, gripping his hand. "Doctor Phlox will remain in contact with you. Rest assured that he will keep you informed of any progress the Interspecies Medical Exchange Program makes on your people's problem."

"Thank you, Captain. I have a feeling you will soon repay your debt with interest. I may still not be able to return home, but if my people can be saved at least it will have been a worthwhile sacrifice."

Ga'we was visibly anxious about the new life that was about to begin for them.

The twins pulled on Malcolm's arms and to his embarrassment he had to bend down for a four-armed hug from each of them. The kids had won the heart of pretty much everyone on board, but somehow Malcolm was special to them. They didn't seem to notice his awkwardness or stiff formality. They were sociable children, curious about everything new around them.

"I hope you'll have a good life," Malcolm told Ga'we, when he had managed to disentangle himself from his daughters. "You and your family deserve it."

Trip saw the Lieutenant's eyes shift to the baby he had helped come into the world and who, for a change, was sleeping peacefully, unaware of the import of this moment.

"I'll take care of him, don't worry," Ga'we said, with a smile that brought another faint blush to Malcolm's face.

The family boarded the Shuttle, and the Enterprise Officers left the bay. It was the end of the shift, and Trip almost asked Malcolm about his plans for the night; but at the last moment lacked the courage. He watched the Lieutenant take off in the direction of the gym, and heaved a despondent sigh. It was a surprise when, a couple of hours later, Malcolm showed up at his door. He was in sweat pants and a T-shirt sporting large wet cones of perspiration, and it took Trip but a look to know that he had got himself exhausted – probably on the treadmill – and finally exorcised the demons that had haunted him.

He let his eyebrows lift. He could feel a smile tug at his mouth, but reined it in, taking a perverse pleasure in getting a bit of revenge. "Anything the matter, Lieutenant?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"Come on, Trip," Malcolm panted out, leaning on the wall with one outstretched arm. "May I come in?"

"Hm. I don't know." Trip rubbed a hand on his chin. "Aren't you the man who accused me of being a false friend?"

"I…" Malcolm floundered. He immediately straightened, eyes shooting away. "I've come to apologise, Commander," he said deep in his chest. "That's all I really wanted to say."

He made to leave, and Trip caught him by an arm. "Come on in," he said, finally allowing that smile to shine through.

"So, can I ask if you're feelin' any better without riskin' being knocked unconscious?" he wondered a moment later, words teasing but gaze boring into his friend's.

Malcolm plonked himself in the desk chair. "I've just run a marathon, wouldn't have the energy to swat a fly." He bit his lip, turning more serious. "You know me. I always bounce back, somehow." With a steadying breath he began, "What I said to you that-"

"Wait." Trip raised both hands to stop him. "I've thought about it, and if you really had stayed behind just to keep an eye on us, then maybe you shouldn't have left the bar that night." He lowered himself on the bed. "Look, I just wanted to make ya feel better, but in a way you're right: I _was_ a false friend, not admitting the truth."

The grey eyes searched his for a moment. "I didn't mean… I was…" Malcolm faltered again, but his gaze was clearer. "Well, you know. I don't need to spell things out to you."

Trip's mouth curved up. "Ya mean to say that true friends understand each other, even without words?"

"That's exactly what I mean to say," Malcolm said, his heart on his sleeve for once.

A moment later, he got up.

"Going already?"

"I'm sure I don't quite smell like roses."

They walked to the door.

"Well, all's well what ends well," Trip sighed, leaning on its frame.

"Yeah."

"You know, the Capt'n was so afraid to send you on that covert mission, but you managed quite well." Trip chuckled. "Ever thought about becoming a spy?"

Malcolm's eyes narrowed. "Not a chance," he said in a very dark voice. He looked to be schooling his features. "Good night, Commander."

"Night."

Trip frowned. Was that a cloud which had passed over Malcolm's face? As he watched the man walk away, he was left wondering. Nah – he must have imagined it.

He pushed off the door frame and turned just in time to see Enterprise break orbit, at impulse power. He shuffled to his porthole and watched Ajfwqa, with all its troubles, get smaller and smaller.

Damn, but he couldn't say he minded.

THE END

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